


Agent Notes:  The Centralia, PA Incident

by MarleyMortis



Series: Agent Notes [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alcoholism, F/M, Friendship, Gwen is messed up, Howard has crappy coping skills too, Jarvis is done with this shit, Language is salty, Magic, Multi, Nick Fury is done with this shit, Racism, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rape/non-con happen off screen, Unhealthy Relationships, Unhealthy coping skills, Violence, some sexual content, this is not a love story
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-31
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 04:09:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 49,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7919971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarleyMortis/pseuds/MarleyMortis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While investigating a means of waking Peggy from a prolonged coma after the events in West Berlin, Howard and Gwen are forced to team up with new ally, Nick Fury, to investigate a series of break-ins at Howard's mansion and the attempted kidnapping of Peggy Carter.  Nick and the Howling Commandos come to the rescue of S.H.I.E.L.D as the situation spirals desperately out of control.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 11 December, 1961

**Author's Note:**

> This is a sequel to the West Berlin Incident. You'll probably need to have read that to fully understand this. Howard and Gwen's relationship is not an example of a healthy one and includes some emotional abuse and power imbalances. Please take note of that as you read. If there's anything I've missed in the tags, do let me know.

**11 December, 1961**

Christmas in Manhattan should have been a cheery affair. The tree at Rockefeller Center was ablaze with a multitude of twinkling lights. Peace and goodwill toward men practically oozed from the pores of native New Yorkers, and to top off the holiday festivities, an early snowfall blanketed the city. What better environment in which to engage in seasonal cheer?

The bright, colorful lights hurt Gwen's eyes. Peace on Earth and goodwill toward men were mind-numbing. Snow made roads impassable and required bundling up like an igloo to stay warm, and the next person who wished her a merry Christmas was due for a Bah Humbug straight up the arse. The Grinchy sentiment would be represented in her scenario by the barrel of her largest bore shotgun.

Mostly, though, she wanted to climb the tallest building and scream in soul-deep protest. How dare people live their lives as though nothing had changed while Peggy languished in a coma? How dare the world commit such sacrilege as to continue spinning like it wasn't profoundly out of balance? People swilled their eggnog, decorated their trees, and hanged stockings with care while the best of them had been reduced to a rag doll propped up in Stark's expensive bed.

The collar of her Balmain pumpkin-colored cocoon coat was pulled higher to ward off the chill as she scurried from a medallion cab to ring the bell of eight ninety, Fifth Avenue. The three story townhouse served as Stark's Manhattan residence and was a-twinkle with a myriad of colorful lights.

Mister Jarvis answering the door with his customary welcome offered a rare bright spot amongst the otherwise offensive holiday season. “Good evening, Agent Holcomb. What a pleasant surprise.”

“Is it?” She hadn't been certain how she would be received after Howard had fled London, without notice, with Peggy a little less than a month ago. 

“Your unexpected visit is far more pleasant than dancing sugarplums and jolly Saint Nick.” He, with his smart butler's uniform and immaculately groomed hair, offered a charming smile. “Please, do come in out of the snow. This weather makes for a cheery holiday season, but it isn't so kind on the bronchi.”

Despite her recent moodiness, a smile crept cautiously into existence. Something about him had always soothed her. How one could feel instantly better just from being in a particular person's presence was a mystery. It wasn't as though they spoke often. She readily accepted the invitation by stepping onto the marble flooring in the foyer where she removed her beret and gloves.

“Are you ready for the holidays?”

“I'll be spending them working, I'm sure.” She presented him with a package wrapped up in bright paper. It was accompanied by a cheerier “Merry Christmas” than she'd believed herself capable of.

Surprise and panic flashed across his expression, but he quickly hid his feelings behind a stoic facade. “I'm afraid you've caught me completely unprepared. Had we been expecting your arrival—”

A kiss deposited on his cheek interrupted his apologies. “Don't worry so, Mister Jarvis. It's nothing much. I saw the cufflinks in London and immediately thought of you.” She paused to wipe remnants of red lipstick from his cheek. “Is he home?” While waiting for a response, she retrieved two other packages from the pockets of her coat before shrugging from it.

Jarvis was quick to step forward and help her free of the outerwear. “He's downstairs in his laboratory where one can find him most days. Miss Carter is in the master suite whenever you're ready to visit.”

She smoothed a hand down the marigold sheath dress she'd worn in an attempt at fostering a brighter attitude. It had ultimately failed, but at least she'd made the attempt. A heavy swallow restored moisture to a suddenly parched throat. “I don't know if I can see her like that.”

“Of course you can, Agent Holcomb. All her physicians have said the same thing, that sometimes the comatose know when people are around them. What I have observed from my own research is that she rests easier on the mornings I read to her than otherwise.”

Knowing that Edwin cared that much, that he took time out of his day to sit with Peggy, prompted her to hug him. He stiffened. It was highly inappropriate for a butler to accept such familiarity from a guest, but she didn't give a damn about propriety. “Thank you for taking such good care of her.”

After the initial moment of tension, he eased into the embrace and hugged her in return. “Agent Carter is worth every moment.” Finally. Someone who understood her importance.

Gwen retreated from the embrace and gathered the presents she'd settled on a small stand near the door along with her handbag. “I would like to see him first if you think he's amenable to my presence.”

“Why wouldn't he be?”

“Because he hasn't been the same since West Berlin. Breaking Agent Carter out of the hospital against the orders of her doctors was understandable. Leaving London with her, I can even support. He needs to be in close proximity for his research. Not telling me about it, though... If I've done something to make him think Agent Carter isn't safe with me—”

It was his turn to interrupt. “I can assure you his recent actions are no reflection of how he feels about you. He would never forgive himself if he knew you thought otherwise. Do you remember the way?”

An affirmative response preceded her squeezing his arm briefly. Her things in hand, she crossed the foyer to a lift that delivered her into Stark's underground laboratory in the third and lowest sub-level. The clacking of her daringly-high Dior heels against marble brought a modicum of life back to what otherwise seemed a silent household. That someone else was suffering Peggy's absence helped to start loosening the knot of tension making her chest heavy.

Saying that Howard was glad to see her upon arriving would have been an overstatement. In fact, he barely even noticed her, choosing instead to send himself rolling across the floor in an office chair to peer at some slides in a microscope. It brought back nostalgic memories of her brief foray into the SSR while he'd been working on a serum to stabilize her symptoms.

As she recalled, he'd tried convincing Colonel Phillips he'd invented the rolling office chair after a number of gurney wheels had gone missing. Said wheels had later been found in Howard's lab lined up on a table by order of size and wear pattern. No one had ever discovered what he'd actually been doing with them, but knowing him, he'd been using them to determine whether concrete or wooden floors were more ergonomic so as to subject his interns to the most uncomfortable flooring, secret mental conditioning in preparation for teaching them to call him “our god of inspiration” undoubtedly.

Since he wasn't paying attention, she took the opportunity to observe. He looked haggard. Stark wasn't a powerfully built man, but he'd become thinner in the past month. His complexion had suffered from self-enforced confinement, and that, combined with lanky hair and bags under his eyes, posed a bleak picture of his self-care regimen. In short, he looked terrible.

Trouble arose from the different dialects in which Howard and she communicated, dialects similar enough they could speak but with enough differences it generally resulted in bickering. Motivating him to afford himself better care could backfire horrendously. Peggy would know how to make him better, but she was present in name only, so all Gwen could do was consider creative ways to maneuver him in the appropriate direction. She entertained mental images of him eating food off her naked skin.

“Don't stand there. Make yourself useful and load those vials of Peggy's blood into the centrifuge. The blood must be fractionated, as I believe there may be something in her leukocytes that allowed her to survive the chemical where many of the others exposed for similar lengths of time died.”

“So you are still speaking to me.” One of the packages she carried was settled next to his elbow before she kicked off her heels to wander across floors buffed to a smooth finish in stockinged feet. Two vials of blood waited that were labeled Subject: Peggy Carter. 

“I wasn't aware that was in question.” It took him a few moments to realize she'd left something nearby, and when he did, he looked at the item like it was an object of alien origins. “What's this?”

“It's Christmas soon.”

“I hadn't realized. Have Jarvis take you into town tomorrow with my pocketbook and pick out something swell for yourself. Oh, and do grab something for Peggy and Mister Jarvis, too.” The colorful paper stood no chance against agile fingers when he finally got to unwrapping the thing. It contained a small box of Thornton's toffee. A ghost of a smile curved his lips. “You remembered.”

Settling vials into the centrifuge and firing it up took a matter of moments. Afterward, the soft hum of its dutiful whirling filled a moment of silence before she spoke. “Why do you think it's such a small box? I'm the one who held your hand and emptied your vomit bucket when you made yourself sick.”

Another beat of silence followed while he fingered black ribbon tying the package closed. “Why haven't you visited sooner? You have been missed.” The latter seemed a reluctant admission which indicated he was speaking on a more personal level. It implied he had missed her.

She scoffed at the question. “You took her from me. No face-to-face, no phone call, not even a handwritten note letting me know you were returning to the States. One evening, you were both in London. You were gone the next morning without so much as a farewell. What was I supposed to think? I didn't even know you'd brought her to New York until Mister Jarvis called.”

He paused with a bite of toffee halfway to his lips. “I thought I left you a note. The resources in London weren't sufficient for my needs, and Peggy must be with me while I continue studying her condition. I suppose I forgot to have Jarvis drop the letter in the post before we left.”

“Bollocks, Howard!” Color heated her cheeks with rising indignation. “You make caring about you exceedingly difficult sometimes.”

“I know, all right! I very well know.” The manic edge to his tone stimulated the reemergence of Notebook. Furious scribbles commenced, but they proved dissatisfying. A quick wrench tore out the entry. He crumpled it, pitched it across the room, and started fresh notations. His pen slashed the page and scattered red ink in its wake, Howard the Norman Bates to Notebook's Marion Crane.

To say that she was disturbed would have been an understatement. Gwen skimmed across the floor, crouched, and turned his stool away from the table to take his hands. “Look at me.”

His glance flicked over to meet hers.

Seeing tears glistening there, witnessing the trouble he had maintaining eye contact, the confusion wrinkling his forehead, they broke her heart in ways she hadn't imagined possible. They broke her heart, and she didn't know how to fix him. How could he be fixed when he wasn't capable of understanding emotional vulnerability?

She brightened when an idea dawned. “Stay with me. Create a list of Hexagonal numbers.”

“Pardon?” Surprise became evident on his features. 

“A list of Hexagonal numbers. I know you speak the queen's English. Or some version of it at least. As much as any Yank is capable of so doing.”

He still seemed unsure of her angle when he rattled off numbers. “One, six, fifteen, twenty-eight, forty-five, sixty-six.” 

“No one told you to stop. Keep going.”

“Ninety-one, one hundred twenty, one hundred fifty-three, one hundred ninety.” One could see the very moment he transitioned from Emotional Wreck to Mental Competence. His mind was geared toward science and numbers. Those were thought patterns he understood. Emotional vulnerability set him completely at odds with his logic-based mindset. Emotional distress was to him as voting liberal was to a conservative. It made him say “no no no no no” to everything.

Relief sagged his forehead against hers and allowed a quick breath to dislodge from his lungs. He broke the silence by saying, “I thought you'd abandoned us this whole month, that you found caring about us too difficult after what happened to Peggy.”

“Never,” she whispered. “Unless you send me away, I will always be with you emotionally.”

His thumb skimmed along her cheekbone. “I missed you.”

It brought a brief sting to her eyes, and she responded, “I missed you too.”

Those four simple words unchained whatever was holding him back. He cupped her chin and kissed her, their mouths surprisingly gentle while coaxing a shared response. Fingers feathered into the carefully constructed flip at the ends of her shoulder-length hair so he could encourage her off the floor and onto his lap where she settled after hitching her skirt high enough to allow for doing so. The potent taste of mint on his tongue was nearly overpowering.

Gwen hesitated by pulling back to look into his eyes. “You've been drinking again.”

“Sometimes I need to forget.”

She didn't need to ask for clarification. Naturally, she hesitated. Sleeping with him while he was drunk was rather like condoning the alcoholism, but there was such a thing as picking one's battles. He needed the reminder that he wasn't alone in the world as much as she did.

Finally, she said, “Let me help you forget.”

Deepening the kiss again, she worked through several buttons on his sweater without much trouble and pushed it from his shoulders. The button down shirt and suspenders beneath were made quick work of, too, allowing her to trace a thumb around one of his nipples. Between her caress and the chilly air inside the basement, the dusky peak pebbled easily.

By the time her dress was unzipped and removed, they'd generated enough body heat that the goose pimples as skin was presented to cool air didn't last long. Also, he warmed her by wrapping both arms tightly around her shoulders and pulling their chests together while she sucked on his tongue. There had been a time not long ago that such a possessive hold would have made her twitchy.

The man even managed to unhook her bra one handed, and the filmy garment slithered to the floor without care or concern. While he dropped his head to suck a nipple into his mouth to provide it with copious amounts of attention, he also traced the edges of her thigh high stockings, held pinned in place with a garter belt. He seemed fascinated by the differences in texture between her skin and the nylon.

One thing was sure: the sensuous stroking went a long way in increasing her anticipation. She sank her fingers into his hair in order to drag his head back to latch her lips around the pulse point in his throat. If she ended up leaving a mark, it was just proof of how eager he'd made her for his touch.

Eventually, he tired of their petting. The microscope and slides were pushed out of the way. He grasped hold of her buttocks for a firm squeeze before depositing her on the tabletop. “Don't go anywhere. I have to get a condom, and unfortunately, I don't keep those in my lab.”

“I take oral contraceptives, you know,” she said with an amused lilt.

He paused on his way to the lift. “So I assumed, but a slim chance of impregnation still exists. A slightly different mix of chemicals, the inclusion of even one component that's been on the shelf past its expiration date, and the next thing you know, miniature Starks are destroying the world.”

A beat of silence passed before he continued, “My parental drive, what little exists, should be saved for an offspring created by an optimal match to my genetic material. If my offspring stands a reasonable chance of destroying the world with curiosity, I may as well give him or her the most spectacular potential possible. As much as I admire your grit and determination, someone of your background and lack of intellectual ambition would not provide the optimal genetic partner to mine.”

Gwen's mouth dropped open for a couple of seconds because that was single-handedly the most spectacularly failed comment she'd ever heard him come up with. Neither did she miss a beat before grabbing and hurling a nearby stress ball at his head. “That's fine. I didn't want to have your brat anyway. Could you imagine having a Stark kid? That's the stuff of nightmares, but did you have to ruminate on how very beneath you I am?”

He seemed rather gobsmacked by her tantrum, but the foam toy bounced painlessly off his shoulder.

“Well call me a bloody fool,” she continued, “for expecting a modicum of respect. Who pulled you out when the Bolsheviks held your lab in France hostage to leverage you into handing over your research on cold fusion? This dumb redhead. Who saved your arse when Baron Zemo attacked the convoy escorting your latest bomb to Allied forces? This dumb redhead.”

“I didn't mean—”

“I never bloody wanted to have your crotch dropping. I would probably break any infant entrusted to my care, and if they did somehow survive to adulthood, they would do so with so many emotional scars as to be unfit for mingling in the general populace. But I'll be damned if I let you stand there like a smug prick and imply my genetics are beneath yours. Apples and oranges, Stark.”

“I misspoke!”

“You're damned right, you did.”

“Apologies for being an unfeeling fool, though I should point out that you've known I am an unfeeling fool for many years now. There's no possible way you could have overlooked that fact.”

“Knowing you're a big jerk doesn't mean I'm going to stop calling you on it every time you engage in behaving like an arsehole! How will you learn unless someone continuously points it out to you?”

His shoulders slumped, and he took on the posture of a repentant puppy who'd been caught with his head stuck in the waste basket lid. “Will you forgive me?”

A put-upon sigh escaped. “Of course. Now shut up and get back over here. I have condoms in my handbag, and it's blooming cold down here without you holding me.” She reached for her bag and retrieved a packet of condoms, because sometimes, a girl just didn't want to get messy from sex.

His expression brightened considerably before he hurried back to step between her outstretched thighs. Their mouths were quickly fused together again while he grasped the waistband of her panties and went about working them down off her buttocks to pitch them aside. Of course, then there was his belt to contend with. She came to the hasty conclusion that people wore too many damned clothes.

Later, when they'd both sated themselves—that she'd been able to orgasm instead of faking one was a massive relief, as a second faked orgasm likely would have triggered an inquisition—and were sharing a cigarette, he grumbled “I hope skin particles from your perky ass don't contaminate my samples.”

She punched his shoulder while taking another long drag of tobacco smoke. “I'm going to clean up before stopping by to sit with Peggy. Should I bother calling a cab to take me back to my hotel later?”

“Why would you even think of renting a hotel room? Give your key to Mister Jarvis and then curl up next to Peggy in one of my robes. I'll ask him to pick up your things from your hotel.”

A soft sigh of something akin to contentment escaped, and she finally moved from off his lap to gather her discarded garments. “All right, but don't work too late. You're not going to solve Peggy's condition in one night. I've left Agent Vetrov in charge of the Slavic division indefinitely—he's ready for the responsibility—and am here until you kick me out or Peggy is awake and coherent.”

“You won't leave me here alone with her?”

“Never,” she responded.

The two shared a meaningful glance before she dressed and stepped onto the lift.

***

Later that night, jet lag insisting she find some quiet room to curl up in, Gwen slipped into the master suite to finally look in on their patient. It wasn't the first time she'd seen Peggy since the explosion, but she was struck once again by how small and vulnerable she looked engulfed in Howard's king-sized bed. The tubes and monitors attaching her to various machines made her appear even more fragile.

Being able to sleep beside her? She had considered the offer but couldn't bring herself to lie next to their lover when Peggy was comatose, limp, and being fed through a tube in her stomach. No way was sleeping in that bed happening. There would be more tears than actual resting.

Instead, she dragged a chair next to the bed and flopped down. All she could do was watch the other woman sleep, occasionally smoothing a hand over the dark hair fanned across a white pillowcase. Seeing it limp and not rolled into Peggy's customary barrel curls startled her.

“You look like you could wake up at any moment and chew me out for not coming to see you sooner.” Something tickled her cheek. Her fingers came away damp from brushing at the irritant, and she continued, “Bleeding Hell, Peggy, what am I supposed to do without you? Who's going to pester me into spending more time away from the office? Who will remind me not to use enemy dicks as stress relievers? You never thought about that before getting trapped in a pocket of gas, you selfish cow.”

Sleeping Beauty's deep, even breaths continued uninterrupted.

All the emotions congealed into one terrible knot of hardness inside her chest that couldn't be swallowed down, and she ended up on her feet again and pacing furiously beside the bed. “Churchill humped a witch's tit, but no one told me this was going to be so damned hard. You never warned me that caring about someone could be so awful, so bloody painful. Why didn't you warn me?”

Her shouting was swallowed up by the deafening silence from the bed.

She dropped back onto the vacated chair. “It's partially my fault you're like this. That assassin must have figured out how important you are to me. I can't believe I slept with him.” Scooting closer, she caressed Peggy's hair again and sounded more resolute when she next spoke. “I'm going to find him for you, Love. I'll find him and make him beg for mercy for what he's done to you.”

Snot dripping from her nose forced her to grab a tissue from the nightstand before continuing, “You have to wake up, Baby. I love you so damn much, and the thought of life without you is interminable.”

The silence stretched to a painful degree. 

After blowing her nose again, Gwen retrieved her handbag and the final present tucked inside. Said present was grazed across the other woman's forearm so she could feel the texture of the wrapping paper and the soft tickle of dangling strings from a bow.

“I had something made for you for Christmas, Love, but since you can't open it, I'll do it for you.”

Wrapping paper shredded like old newsprint, and the box contained therein was opened to reveal a fired hollow point bullet. The tip had mushroomed out upon impact into a shape resembling a flower, so Gwen had paid a jeweler to mount a ruby into the center. It was suspended from a solid chain.

She swallowed heavily before threading the chain under Peggy's neck to latch the necklace in place. It rode higher than Steve's nickel, so both could be worn at the same time. “I was looking through some of Howard's World War II boxes and found a baggie full of fired bullets. Said you'd fired them at the captain's shield because you were ticked about something. He saved them thinking they would be valuable in studying the durability of vibranium. Anyhow, I've saved the rest for you. Maybe you would like to have something made from them to pass on in the captain's honor.”

“I didn't know the man,” she continued. “I never met him, but I don't have to meet him to understand what a unique and rare gentleman he was. The fact that you loved him—that you continue to love him to this day—is enough to tell me what I need to know. No matter what happens to you, I won't stop looking for some sign of him. I promise.”

 

**Daily Notes: Pretty sure I had a breakthrough with Howard today. I've never noticed before how differently he thinks. My stream of consciousness is littered with more color than an Andy Warhol print, but Howard thinks in an entirely different language. Maybe I can use that to help him take better care of himself. Also, there will be payback for that crack about my genetics.**


	2. 19 December, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Incredibly creepy fellows invade Howard Stark's mansion and attempt a kidnapping of Peggy Carter.

**19 December, 1961**

Terrifying images flashing against the back of her eyelids jarred her from sleep. Confusion followed in the seconds after returning to consciousness. She lurched up from Howard's desk so forcefully the chair rolled back against the wall with a thud, but that noise didn't dissuade her from staring down at her hands. They were covered in Julian's blood.

A distressed whimper escaped as she frantically chafed hands against jeans. The blood wouldn't wipe away. Why wouldn't the blood wipe away?! Somewhere outside, a car backfired with a loud popping sound, and that was ultimately what distracted her from her hands. She dropped to the floor to take cover behind Stark's desk, convinced Stark Mansion was dead center inside a war zone. 

That was how Mister Jarvis found her. He called a cheery greeting while stepping into Howard's office. The rattle of a tea service announced the time. If that wasn't enough, the man asked, “Afternoon tea, Agent Holcomb? Miss Gwen?”

Heart pounding, she grasped the edge of the desk and emerged with a too-bright smile and clutching a pen. “Afternoon, Mister Jarvis. That silly car backfiring made me drop my pen.”

If he was dubious, he was too much of a gentleman to show it. “You're working too hard. Perhaps you should consider taking a walk in the park this afternoon? The brisk air will do you some good and alleviate being cooped up inside all weekend.”

“Sounds like a wonderful idea, but this paperwork must get done before tomorrow morning. Nothing prepared me for the amount of documents Mister Stark has to sign as acting director of S.H.I.E.L.D.” She moved some of her things out of the way so Jarvis could place the teacup and saucer.

“All work and no play, Miss Gwen, makes the process much less gratifying. I could help if you require assistance. Mister Stark often has me take care of the paperwork and books for him.”

“You're already running his household, and if rumors are to be believed, you're also single-handedly overseeing operations of Stark Enterprises while he's engaged in researching Peggy's condition.”

“Rumors of my involvement with the company are grossly exaggerated, I assure you. My contributions are limited to nagging him into making decisions and forging his name to the necessary permissions. Aside from that, there is painfully little for me to do around here.”

Their brief conversation was interrupted by a loud crash drifting up the open door leading into the first sub-level. As far as she knew, the basement was used mainly for storage with Stark's lab and workshop existing beneath it and only accessed through a structurally-reinforced lift that required a pass-code. A second loud crash brought her to her feet, and she jogged downstairs to find Howard neck deep in old crates. His manic look rocketed her heart north of her larynx.

“Howard.”

“I don't know where it is.” He toppled crates over in order to reach one at the bottom of the stack. The sound of glass breaking emanated from the dislodged containers.

“What are you looking for? Maybe I can help you find it.”

He jammed his fingers through his hair and made a wild, inarticulate gesture before responding, “The thing. The thing I made for you when we were researching your condition. Don't just stand there. Help me find it. I need to measure Peggy's leukocytes but am having trouble finding a vein.”

“You'll have to be more descriptive than 'the thing.'”

“Peggy would know what I was talking about,” he fired back, chest heaving, eyes bloodshot. There was no mistaking that accusatory look on his face for anything but what it was: the sincere desire to alter the universe so Peggy and she could trade places, to be able to exchange his lover for the woman who transcended love into the realm of worship.

Gwen closed her eyes and counted to five. Then ten. And the truth was that it didn't even sting knowing she would always exist in a category beneath Peggy. Were it possible to trade places, she would sacrifice her life in an instant to give the other woman back to him.

Mister Jarvis cleared his throat and stepped in to salvage the situation. “Describe the item, Sir, and Agent Holcomb and myself will help you locate it.”

Howard's bottom lip wobbled for an instant, but he ultimately managed to pull himself back together. “It's a prototype. A small strip wicks up blood and delivers it to a meter that measures the patient's white blood cell count.”

“I remember what you're describing now.” She wanted to snap about how easy that had been once he'd calmed his bloody self down long enough to be more descriptive than “the thing.” Being all sauce-box   
would just lead to another argument, and contrary to previous evidence, she was capable of controlling herself when called so to do.

Howard rushed to say something, excitement or mania causing his words to slur unintelligibly and forcing them to ask for clarification. The downward curvature of his mouth telegraphed his disapproval of being required to repeat himself. “You must come look. I believe I've had something of a breakthrough with regards to Peggy's blood.”

Funny how human emotions were such pliable things. One moment, Gwen despaired over Peggy's continued lack of response to treatment. The next, hope was rekindled and resulted in an uncomfortable heart spasm that made breathing difficult. “Show us.”

Moving from the storage basement to the underground lab was quick work, and she was soon bent over his microscope peering at a slide. She had looked at slides often enough during his work on her serum to identify blood cells. “What am I looking for?”

“After fractionating her blood into its various components and isolating the white blood cells, I was able to see that said leukocytes appear covered in an unknown pathogen or residue. Do you see the yellow film around the exterior of each cell? Ignore the purple coloration. Leukocytes are colorless, so I introduced a stain to make seeing them easier.”

“I see what you're describing.”

“That film didn't exist in any of her blood work prior to the bombing incident in West Berlin. Now load the next four slides I've laid out beside you. These depict my leukocytes over a period of several weeks. I've taken fresh samples of my blood once a week for every week that has passed.”

She did as instructed, glancing at each slide to watch a gradual deterioration of the yellow film from around his white blood cells. “It's all but disappeared from your samples by the last slide.”

“Precisely. My body is filtering the pathogen out, but hers is not. I still don't know if it's a result of her higher exposure time—she breathed in the toxic fumes much longer than I—or something about her immune system, but we have some real, concrete data regarding her condition now!”

Smiling, she leaned her hip against the table. “That's wonderful news, Howard. You are as brilliant as everyone claims to have spotted something so miniscule.”

Her comment had the opposite effect and dampened the excitement previously emoted. “If I were truly brilliant, she would be well by now.”

Stepping closer, she laced their fingers together. “You will make her so. Now, I should go and help Mister Jarvis look for the device you're after.” A quick kiss was deposited on his lips before she left the lab to begin the search. Real hope put a bounce in her step that hadn't been there previously.

The following two hours spent searching for the item were brought to an instantaneous halt when Stark Mansion was invaded by more than a dozen men wearing burlap bags over their heads. Each bag was prevented from riding up by a roughly woven rope around the neck. A grim face with a narrower chin and a wider brow had been painted onto each sack.

People occasionally attempted to invade Stark's residence; he was obscenely wealthy and possessed technology any number of organizations would have loved getting their filthy hands on. It had never happened in broad daylight before, and they had never been taken by surprise so thoroughly. The sheer number of them proved the greatest risk, though.

Gwen was searching through medical paraphernalia shoved into a closet in Howard's office when the intruders burst through the front and rear doors. She gaped at them for all of three seconds before breaking right around a massive desk and intercepting two thieves by barreling into them at full tilt. Eleven point seven stone and a hundred and eighty-two centimeters of densely muscled woman plowing into anyone was going to send a combatant to the floor. Three more escaped around her and barreled toward the stairwell.

She handled the first of her opponents by punching the heel of her palm against his nose. Blood poured from the broken conk, allowing her to twist around just as his comrade was reaching for her. Her knee impacted against his groin and was accompanied by a pleased smile from the wail it produced. Pain doubled him over. She went one better by grabbing his head and introducing knee to face.

“We're under attack!” she shouted.

Howard responded first by racing up from the basement and clobbering the first person he laid eyes on with a five iron. He glanced at the golf club with fresh eyes when the thief fell to the floor. “Perhaps I judged golf too hastily when I wrote it off as a game for the incredibly dull.”

Her heel completed its collision course with another man's knee, dislocating his patella and putting him out of combat. “Baby, why do you have golf clubs if you don't like golf?”

“I don't actually know. Because it's expected for a wealthy man to court business partners over a game of golf? Perhaps they were a gift from a business partner?” He paused long enough to use the long handle as a choke bar by looping it around an opponent's neck and cutting off the man's airway. “No! I remember now. They were my father's. Remind me to have Mister Jarvis melt them down and purchase a new set for my collection.”

She grabbed a man's head and used her body weight, gravity, and the grip to flip him over her shoulder and onto the floor. When she had him there, she thought nothing of snapping his neck. By the time she looked back up, three invaders were coming up behind Howard and were close enough she couldn't reach him in time. “Behind you!”

The situation went from a burgeoning disaster to the Twilight Zone in about four seconds as Mister Jarvis came barreling out from the butler's pantry and hurled a heavy silver teapot at the men pressuring Howard. The teapot dropped one man and stalled the others long enough for him to come to Sir's salvation with moves that were obviously born of much experience with fisticuffs.

Mister Stark didn't seem at all surprised and nodded to his butler. “Good show, Chap.”

“That was nearly a total cock up, Sir. Please, be more aware of your surroundings.”

“Bloody Mary's petticoats, you have to be more careful, Howard.” Shaking her head, she got back to the business of cleaning up from the attempted invasion. By then, the enemy numbers were such that they wouldn't be able to recover and pose a greater threat.

The three of them resolved the conflict within fifteen minutes. For would-be thieves, they seemed only lightly trained in hand to hand technique and were easily dispatched. Their danger had been from their overwhelming numbers, and once that was nullified, the situation wrapped up without serious threat. 

“They can't have been professional thieves,” she said while toeing an enemy who still had some life left in him. “Howard, get some rope. We need to tie them up. Mister Jarvis, call the police.”

“Rope? That seems awfully archaic when I have a drawer full of handcuffs.”

She paused and glanced at him with no small amount of exasperation. “Of course you do. What in the bloody bollocks are you doing with a drawer full of handcuffs? On second thought, I don't really want to know. Do bring them here, though, before these dirty puzzles rouse and require a second beating.”

Both men stopped to look at her, but Howard was the one who asked, “What is a dirty puzzle?”

A shrug was offered. “Victorian slang for a nasty slut. I sometimes forget how old I actually am.”

He offered the slightest grin before hurrying off to find his drawer of handcuffs.

“It's a shame we won't know what they were after,” Mister Jarvis commented while straightening his tie. “Their masks seem to indicate an organized group. Perhaps a gang?”

“If it is gang activity, let's hope they think twice after having lost a dozen men.” Her comment died with the sound of breaking glass from the floor above. Ice water being poured down her panties would have been more welcome than the jolt of panic following in the wake of that noise. “Oh God. Peggy.”

Howard made it to the main stairwell first, and they tore off toward the master suite. They arrived to find three bag-headed men inside. One had hold of Peggy's hair and forced her head back to extend the neck while another poised an ax against her throat in preparation for severing head from shoulders.

She couldn't get there in time. Howard couldn't either. Mister Jarvis was the one who grabbed a vase and hurled it at the intruder holding the ax. It broke apart against the back of his head and caused him to drop his weapon, buying just enough time for Peggy's lovers to reach her.

Nothing would ever be as frightening as seeing the woman she loved nearly beheaded, and something in her brain switched gears. While the thieves scrambled to retrieve the ax, she spring-boarded across the bed and drove a knee into a would-be assassin's face. The ax wound up in her hands following a scuffle. She didn't so much as flinch while burying the blade in a man's face.

By the time she could sort out who was who and what was what again, Howard had dispatched the final goon with a large chunk of the vase Jarvis had shattered over a man's head. It was buried in the goon's neck, and blood was spraying from a severed jugular.

Mister Jarvis looked completely horrified by the violence he'd just witnessed.

“Is she alive? Fuck, tell me if she's alive!” she sobbed. She released the ax that remained embedded in the man's face and scrambled around to check on their lover.

“She's alive,” Howard responded coolly. “It's okay, Gwen. She's alive.”

It wasn't that she didn't trust Stark's word, but she needed to get her hands on Peggy to reassure herself the woman was really unharmed. Trouble was that her hands were covered in the dirty cunt's blood. There was no way she was touching their lover right then, so she scrubbed them furiously on the bedspread. Being that desperate was a new and horrible thing to endure.

Mister Jarvis maintained his head, though, and hurried over to take her by the shoulders. “Agent Holcomb, you must calm yourself. Agent Carter is still very much alive, but we must move her to a different room while this one is being cleaned. Go and wash up. I will call the authorities. Sir, you should wash up enough to help me move her medical necessaries to a different room.”

“Keep one of the scum under our control. Drag his sorry carcass down into the lowest sub-level to hide him from the authorities,” she whispered through gritted teeth. “We'll need to interview him.”

Mister Jarvis glanced toward Stark for confirmation.

“Her orders are as good as mine,” he responded. “She'll be taking over the directorship of S.H.I.E.L.D in a few days. Might as well. She's basically doing everything required of a director as it is, and I can't focus on running the organization and taking care of Peggy.”

Gwen was gobsmacked. “How about a great, big fuck no?!”

 

**Daily Notes: What is Howard thinking?! I just lost complete control of myself and buried the blade of an ax in a man's face, and he wants to make me director of S.H.I.E.L.D in his stead?! Yeah, that will work out brilliantly! Instead of an ax, I'll have a whole militaristic division staffed by super-assassins at my discretion! This is the worst decision of Howard Stark's life. Second worst. We should have never trusted Zola.**


	3. 20 December, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard and Gwen interrogate their new prisoner.

**20 December, 1961**

“You are not a subtle woman,” Howard said into the silence that followed her emerging from the containment room, a structurally reinforced chamber in the mansion's lowest level for testing small scale explosives and other weaponry. Peggy had affectionately coined it “The Boom Room.”

“I am not,” she agreed before washing up in a sink. Streaks of red turned soap bubbles pink and frothy.

“Perhaps it's time we employ a little more subtlety? Your methods haven't proved motivational enough to loosen his tongue, and I would rather get to the tongue loosening before you decide to cut it out.”

“I would not.”

He pinned her with a dubious look in response.

Forced to relent, she said, “Okay, you're probably right. If you think you can do any better, please, be my guest. My usual ego has been checked at the gate.” While drying her hands, she leaned back against the sink and eyed a Tiffany blue box on Stark's lab table that was crowned with a white bow. She'd seen the same type of box once before when an agent had proposed to his then-girlfriend.

“We all want what's best for Peggy, and I fully admit that you wind up forgotten now and then because of my extreme focus on getting her back to full health. Truthfully, I've been beastly lately while you have gone above and beyond. I've noticed.”

Anxiety unsettled her when he brought her needs into the conversation, so she attempted to divert to a safer subject. “Finally going to pop the question to Peggy when she comes back?”

The comment surprised him. “This? This isn't for Peggy. It's for you.”

Logical progression of thought became discombobulated in her brain. She somehow linked the Tiffany blue box with an engagement ring, and if it was for her, did that mean Howard was going to propose? Meltdown was imminent when he finally opened the lid.

All that intensifying anxiety evaporated when she discovered, much to her relief, two strands of Tiffany pearls attached to a broach of blue, filigree flowers. Each flower contained a small pearl in the center. She was so busy pissing herself from relief that she didn't realize how beautiful the gift was at first. 

One day, Peggy and Howard might marry out of convenience. If that happened, she understood she would likely have to step aside to allow them to be together without her involvement. That possibility would leave her buggered up, but what was she going to do about it?

“They're beautiful,” she finally responded.

He gathered the pearls from their container, clasped them around her neck, and stepped back to survey his handiwork. “The blue suits your coloring. When Peggy is back, the three of us will dine at Delmonico's. My girls must be given reasons to dress splendidly.”

“Your girls wouldn't dress so splendidly if you didn't harp on us about looking at home next to one of the country's famous billionaires. But let's get to the part where we make Joe Bloggs squeal like a pig first. If he really does have KGB connections, then we have a dangerous development taking place.”

After pouring herself a fresh cup of coffee, she leaned against the table while he strolled into the Boom Room. The lack of immediate screams from inside allowed her mind to wander. They'd been through a rough stretch together, so the pearls shouldn't have surprised her. His gift giving often coincided with a major argument or period of emotional upheaval in their relationship.

Their first fight had heralded him showing up outside her quarters at the SSR field unit where he'd been studying her condition with a coat trimmed in fox fur. She'd never owned anything so nice and had been dazzled by the gift. The second rough patch had been assuaged with a diamond necklace worth more than everything she'd ever possessed totaled together. For their third, a real doozy after he'd completed her serum and she'd started establishing her independence from her benefactors, had concluded when he'd purchased her a sinfully expensive London flat. He'd also wormed out a promise that she never leave Peggy and him without giving him a chance at making things up.

He was buying her forgiveness. She'd come from a staggeringly poor upbringing, and he'd used his wealth like a fortune teller's crystal ball to keep her distracted and overwhelmed by the attention he'd lavished upon her. Maybe she should be angry over the realization, upset that he thought material possession could still dazzle her into forgiving him. Mostly, though, she was just heartsick at realizing how emotionally broken he really was that he thought he needed to buy her forgiveness in the first place. She would forgive him anything at the mere asking.

Her attention turned back to the task at hand. After sipping coffee, she plopped down behind a monitor displaying the interior of the Boom Room and their hapless captive. Joe Bloggs should be nearing the point where discomfort finally loosened his tongue.

Surprising everyone, Howard turned out to be brilliant at playing Good Cop to her Bad Cop. Listening to the shift in his persona from calculating to empathetic proved both startling and impressive. He even managed to be sympathetic and promised Mister Bloggs protection from the ne'er-do-well responsible for his captive's present misery, namely her.

“You know women,” he said with a caring tone. “They really can't help being over-dramatic, I suppose. It's the estrogen. It makes them flighty and half-crazy. A man will punch you and leave you with a swollen lip. A woman will grind an elegant heel straight into your scrotum. That's one of the many reasons women should be banned from positions of authority.”

Their captive flinched in response. His reaction to the particular subject of denigrating women provided an important clue as to his history and perhaps the power structure of whatever organization he belonged to. Something about the subject was enough to dislodge him from his previous stoicism.

Stark must have noticed as well, as he seized upon the topic. “I see you understand what I mean, Mister...” The prompt wasn't responded to, so he continued. “Women have forgotten their places since The War. They may have filled vital roles while we were overseas defending our country, but when we returned, they refused to go back to their prewar activities. How can they not understand that they operate best as mothers and caregivers.”

Joe Bloggs refused eye contact and continued his deadpan stare in the direction of Stark's hands.

“Which brings me to the question of why you attempted to cut off the head of a comatose woman.”

No response.

Another five minutes of patient prompting passed before he revisited the earlier subject. “So if you cooperate, I promise to do my best to protect you from that she-devil we've been saddled with. She would be in a much brighter mood if she would just breed already.”

She jotted down a note to kick Stark's ass when he emerged.

Bloggs finally said, “You're wrong about women in positions of authority. Mother Carys would set you straight on your wayward misinformation. You really can't help being over-dramatic, I suppose. It's the testosterone. It makes you flighty and half-crazy.”

Having his words thrown back in his face took Stark by surprise, but he recovered quickly and said, “Perhaps you would introduce me to Mother Carys. I would be happy for her correction of my patriarchal misinformation, Mister...”

Their uninvited guest cringed upon realizing he'd unintentionally revealed more than he'd wanted and snapped his mouth closed. “You won't goad me into providing any further information about my brothers and sisters. You're wasting your time.”

“My time is mine to do with as I please. If I wish to waste it with your company, I shall. Being a generous fellow, I should warn you that my partner will return shortly. If you haven't been forthcoming, I won't be able to stop her from making finger paintings with your blood.”

“Better her torture than your misogyny.”

If Peggy's head had to be cut off, she supposed it preferable that it be removed at the hands of someone interested in the plight of women in professional society. Joe Bloggs earned grudging respect for his willingness to stand up to Stark. However, she would still eviscerate him if he ever succeeded with bisecting head from body with regards to her lover.

Howard returned to Bloggs' favorite subject again by saying, “Misogyny? Au contraire, mon frere. Recognizing a woman's natural, God-given talents does not make me a misogynist. It makes me a realist. Women are geared toward bearing children and rearing the next generation. Why do you contend otherwise when you freely call your leader Mother Carys, Mister...”

“Howel, damn it! Aldith Howel,” he finally shouted in response to the prompt. The second the name left his lips, the man cringed farther into his chair. “I didn't mean to say that.”

“No, I don't suppose you did.”

She jotted down another note. Never before had a name been more Welsh than Aldith Howel. That tied his cronies and him to a cultural region and narrowed down the symbolism they needed to research. The group was Celtic. Possibly Anglo-Saxon but more likely Celtic.

The interview continued another half hour, but Howel learned his mistake and refused to offer any further tidbits. He was clearly done for the day, and that brought up the dilemma of just what they were going to do with him. She was a violent person, but assassinating someone in custody who was handcuffed to a chair? Even she had her limits.

Howard emerged from inside the Boom Room, and she swiveled around, rising to intercept him as he padded toward his desk. She surprised him with a long, slow kiss that was only broken when the need to breathe became too pressing to ignore. Fingers curled in his hair to prevent his escape.

“I am yours until you don't need me anymore. Regardless of whatever backbiting or bickering we engage in, I will always be yours and Peggy's.”

“What brought this on?” he asked with a big, satisfied grin.

She fingered the necklace. “You don't need to buy me things in order to keep me.”

“What if I just enjoy buying you beautiful things?”

“As long as you don't believe you must in order for me to forgive you.”

Something about his body language made it look like he was on the verge of making an important emotional connection. He wanted to speak but hesitated. The moment evaporated seconds later, motivation flushed away with a heavy sigh. “We should shower and have something to eat. I rather enjoyed your idea of dinner last night and had hoped for a repeat tonight.” A boyish grin was plugged into place like he was a living version of Mister Potato Head.

Rather than pressuring him, she allowed the tension to melt from the room by saying, “I'm not sure you deserve that kind of special dinner after playing the misogynistic creep so well.”

His shoulders stooped, and he produced a disappointed look.

Exasperated, she folded him into a hug. “One day, I'll unwind myself from around your little finger.”

“But today is not that day?” he asked hopefully. Like a puppy who had been shooed away, he allowed an arm to encircle her waist to test the waters as to how much intimacy he was going to get.

“Oh fine, but tequila shots consumed out of my navel do not constitute dinner anymore than using my nipples as honey dippers does. However, if you're willing to eat grilled avocado slices off my body, then of course we can have dinner afterward.” 

 

**Daily Notes: I feel I deserve scantily clad cheerleaders waving pennants that read “Gwen's #1” for having discovered a creative way of making Howard eat more. Sex plus food? He suddenly turns ravenous and will devour just about anything I can put on my body. Perhaps we should try grilled sea bass strips tomorrow?**


	4. 24 December, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen and Howard learn a valuable tool of communication. Jarvis is relieved.

**24 December, 1961**

“The tinsel goes on after the ornaments, Sir,” Mister Jarvis said. That he was able to do so without looking up from one of a number of volumes checked out from the Manhattan Public Library only played into the grossly exaggerated claims purporting eyeballs in the back of his head.

“What if I like it the other way around?”

“Sir has never decorated a Christmas tree before. According to Sir's own adherence to the scientific method, Sir cannot know if he likes the bulbs to go on after the tinsel.”

“What are we talking about?” Miss Gwen asked when she returned from the kitchen with a tray containing a carafe of eggnog and three of Sir's best glasses. After settling the tray on the table piled high with rented books, she paused next to Agent Carter, who was stretched out on the sofa.

A mighty effort was required to remain seated instead of jumping to serve them, but Sir and Miss Gwen had insisted he have the night off. Secretly, he thought they were just freeing him up to research Welsh mythology thanks to their uninvited guest still locked up downstairs in the Boom Room.

“Jay insists I put the bulbs on before the tinsel. Bearing in mind that this is my tree and I was bullied into decorating it, I feel I deserve to have my way.”

Miss Gwen shook her head, and after straightening the blanket over Agent Carter's lap, she glided around the table to join Sir at the impressive Christmas tree that had been delivered that morning. A bulb slipped from Sir's hand and impacted against the marble floor of the great room located just off the rear entrance. The sharp sound of a breaking glass caused Miss Gwen to shrink several inches toward the floor and become tense and fearful. 

She was quick to downplay the reaction by laughing. The subtle cadence that slowed her laughter was an indication of it being forced. “Mister Jarvis is right. Think of it this way. The lights are its bra and panties. The ornaments are its shirt and trousers, and the tinsel is its overcoat. I wouldn't walk around with my overcoat beneath my dress, would I? Didn't your parents ever decorate a tree with you?”

Mister Jarvis cringed.

Sir stiffened and came down off the step-ladder, passing the handful of tinsel he'd been holding to their house guest while moving across to help himself to a cup of eggnog. While she didn't notice, Mister Jarvis had eyes like Scandinavian mountain hawks and noticed Sir adding another shot or three of rum to his eggnog before sipping.

Between their guest's battle fatigue—he recognized the same symptoms in her that many of his comrades from the British Royal Air Force had been discharged with after The War—and Sir's manic period and resulting uptick in alcoholism brought on by Agent Carter's coma, he wasn't sure whether to lock them in padded rooms or render them unconscious until he'd discovered a way of rousing Agent Carter. The house wasn't the same without Miss Peggy's calming hand guiding her more emotionally brittle lovers. And yes, Mister Jarvis knew about that, too. He simply didn't care.

Miss Gwen was certainly trying and surprised him by refusing to allow Sir to escape. “You're not getting out of this that easily, Howard,” she said while grasping his elbow and physically pulling him back toward the grand tree. “It's a Christmas tree, not the Bubonic Plague. So what if your parents never decorated one with you when you were younger. I didn't even have Christmas trees or parents.”

“Would that I hadn't,” Sir muttered.

Mister Jarvis had to strain to hear him.

“Bollocks. You can't say that when you have no idea what it's like growing up without them. Stark Senior may have been an overbearing cunt-waffle who planned your life for you. He may have been an emotionally unavailable gasbag full of piss and self-righteous fuckwittery, but he also gave you drive and opportunity to become who you are today.”

“Be careful, Gwen.” The warning in his tone cut the air like a razor blade.

Mister Jarvis couldn't help but wonder what a “cunt-waffle” and “fuckwittery” were. Miss Gwen's language was becoming legendary.

“Or what? You'll hit me? Kick me out? Terminate my contract? There's only one person whose emotions you can control in this world and that's your own. Tell the stodgy old cunt-waffle off, claim your independence from him, and recognize that you're the better man. Stop allowing his ghost to claim the driver's seat of your emotions and self-worth.”

Fury buried beneath Sir's cultured facade crept to the forefront as evidenced by the clenching of his fists, proving that talk about his father was still a sore spot. “When did you become such a sauce-box?”

“The day you needed me to. The day everyone else stopped calling you on your bullshit.”

A charged look passed between the two before Sir finally snatched the tinsel back from her. He settled it on a box of decorations before grabbing a palette containing brightly colored ornaments. “Just remember that both of you are at fault if this tree turns out looking more like a deformed double helix than a holiday decoration.”

“I have no objection to that. Do you, Mister Jarvis?”

“None, Miss Gwen.”

“Then let's go with that. Strings of lights will form the sugar phosphate backbones. The ornaments will be the base pairs. Red for guanine, blue for cytosine, gold for adenine, and green for thymine.”

Sir and Mister Jarvis turned disbelieving glances in Miss Gwen's direction, their mouths partially agape, as neither knew her to be so well-versed in human genetics.

“Close your mouths, you are not cod fish, Loves. Given the number of hours I spent in your lab being drained of blood as though you were a vampire, it stands to reason I paid attention to your rambling.”

Decorating a tree in Stark Mansion proved a much more jovial affair than Mister Jarvis had first anticipated. Their house guest had brought with her a renewed sense of purpose and willingness to prod Sir out of his darkest thoughts. Banter filling the home while they decided between ornaments lifted his own spirits, and he glanced over to where Miss Peggy slumbered.

The leaping flames of a cheery fire danced across her skin. She was a beautiful porcelain angel. That hardly seemed an appropriate way of describing Agent Carter, though. Her iron will had strong-armed Sir into fighting back against his family's legacy. No matter what anyone else believed, he knew Sir was still alive a dozen times over because of her solid guidance.

Edwin crouched beside her to rearrange the tendril of hair that had fallen into her face. “We will save our damaged charges yet, Miss Peggy. Have faith.”

After wrestling Sir and Miss Gwen into dressing the tree—and he was impressed by the pair's new-found ability to work together in creating what did resemble a double helix—Mister Jarvis insisted they curl into one of Sir's oversized armchairs by the fire while he read A Christmas Carol, their house guest resting comfortably in the crook of Sir's arm. Miss Gwen dozed off somewhere around the visitation of the first spirit of Christmas, but Mister Stark was a surprisingly rapt audience. One could gather he'd never heard the story before and was interested enough to occasionally stop the flow to ask for clarification on a certain topic.

Mister Jarvis concluded, “And so, as Tiny Tim observed, God bless us. Every one.”

“Except the Russians,” Miss Gwen mumbled before stretching to rub the sleep from her eyes.

“And the Italians,” Sir included.

“And the East Germans.”

“We shan't forget to include those awful Tennesseans!”

He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling and offered brief prayers for patience, as he didn't think their list of people exempt from Tiny Tim's blessing would stop any time soon.

 

**Daily Notes: Christmas was surprisingly pleasant this year despite Peggy's continued coma. Though I didn't expect it, I'm learning to communicate with Howard in a healthier fashion. It feels nice to be included as part of a family. As always, Mister Jarvis continues to be a source of constant support. That man deserves a medal of some type for what he puts up with.**


	5. 26 December, 1961

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second invasion prompts another interrogation of their prisoner.

**26 December, 1961**

They came again the day after Christmas during the early morning hours just after sunrise. Armed men wearing burlap sacks employed battering rams to the front and back entrances to gain access to the house. Gwen and Howard had fallen asleep the night before in the master suite where Peggy was once again slumbering, so she left Stark there to protect their lover before going out to handle the invasion. Mister Jarvis, bleary-eyed and still wearing his bathrobe, met her on the ground floor.

Having never seen the man out of sorts before, she found it a revelation to realize he was well-formed beneath his standard butler's uniform. She cocked a brow and tilted one side of her mouth into a lopsided smile while looking at his chest.

“Why Mister Jarvis, I never knew you were so dishy.”

His cheeks flamed, and he tugged the lapels of his bathrobe tightly together. He proceeded to double-knot the belt around his waist. “I believe we have other matters to attend to.”

“Of course. Pardon my inappropriate behavior.” The first of the combatants were reaching the alcove containing the main staircase, so she rolled up her sleeves. “Mister Jarvis, plant yourself in front of those stairs and hold them here. Mister Stark is upstairs guarding her, but you're their first defense.”

After receiving his nod of understanding, she swept through the house facing off against enemy combatants. Hit hard, hit fast, and disable became her motto, but the invaders proved more challenging than those who'd accompanied Howel. The differences began with their appearance. They sported hooded, green pellegrinas trimmed in gold cordage over their burlap face masks in conjunction with identical shirts and ties.

The blighters were also better trained. Most fought with advanced martial capabilities, and a few possessed edged weapons that were used with confidence. She was hard-pressed to keep from being gutted a few times, which led to her next observation. The combatants avoided the pitfall of underestimating her based upon her sex, choosing instead to take her seriously. 

In short, it was a hard fight. Several made it past her to challenge the stairwell, and if it weren't for Mister Jarvis' backup, she wasn't sure she could have kept the heat off Howard. Blood from her busted lip arched through the air when she took a hard hit to the jaw that turned her head. She used the momentum to complete the rotation and slammed the heel of a palm into her attacker's sternum. Said attacker stumbled backward onto a coat hook in the pantry where he sagged, the back of his skull taking the weight of his body where hook penetrated cranium.

Another hapless invader met his untimely end in the stairwell leading down into the storage basement. She caught him by the hair to prevent the goon from disappearing downstairs. A brief struggle ensued, and he managed to get the upper hand and push her against the wall with a hand locked around her throat. Pressure made breathing difficult despite her enhanced physiology.

Leverage was against her, but he was distracted by believing the victory his. She latched onto his wrist to take some of the pressure off her throat before spying a coiled extension cord hanging from a nail above them and to the left. Just managing to get her fingertips on it allowed her to loop one of the coils around his throat. After kneeing him in the groin, she looped the other end around a nail protruding from the underside of the servant's stairs and tipped him toward disaster. 

When he was jerked to a halt by the cord, his feet were dangling a few inches off the nearest step. Panic set in after that, causing him to struggle against the cord instead of trying to step back to a higher level. Convulsions made his limbs flail for a full five minutes while she gathered her breath in the shelter of the stairwell. He was still suffocating when she left to continue her killing spree.

Several others were disabled on her way back to the foyer to check on Mister Jarvis. Blood trickled uncomfortably down her chin to be dashed away by the sweep of her naked forearm across her face. She was battered, bruised, and breathing hard by the time she reunited with him. He was just finishing with one final goon, who was left to slump to the floor and join four or five other men who had attempted mounting the stairs to the upper floors.

“You--” She was forced to clear her throat before trying again. “You okay?”

“Quite.”

It was a word her British upbringing translated to “not very,” and that was when she noticed the growing bloodstain soaking into his robe. A breathy “bloody Hell” whispered from her as she dashed forward to catch him when he looked unsteady. 

“Howard! Howard, Jay needs you!” His blood wicking into her clothing threatened to cause panic as she helped him toward a nearby bench. Once he was seated, she removed her shirt and used it to put pressure on the injury to minimize blood flow.

“It's just a cut, Miss Gwen. Don't fuss so over something so trivial,” he said over the sound of Howard's pounding feet on the stairs.

Only it wasn't just a cut. It was, in fact, a stab wound requiring an immediate trip to the nearest reputable hospital for emergency surgery to stop internal bleeding. The bastards had attempted to remove Peggy of her head and had successfully put Mister Jarvis in the hospital. To say that she wasn't in the mood for Howel's evasiveness was putting it mildly.

***

Fury still simmered like a pot of sauce left too long on the boil when she entered the Boom Room. She hadn't bothered changing from that morning. Jarvis' blood had dried, leaving her a gory mess.

Howel was asleep with his head on the table when she entered. The resounding thud of a thick file containing photocopied pages from the religious texts startled him from sleep when it impacted against the table. He jerked into a seated position and wiped his forearm across his mouth. Movement rattled chains binding him to his chair.

She didn't immediately speak, calmly producing a handkerchief to skim beneath her fingernails and remove plugs of human tissue gouged from the flesh of his brethren during combat. Their uninvited house guest received not a speck of her attention while engaged in her activity. The tune from a child's lullaby whistled from pursed lips to serve as a counterpoint to her grim task.

“You're trying to intimidate me.”

“Intimidate you? Why would I do a thing like that?”

“Because I'm being an aggravating snot?”

“I spent my morning putting down an attempted invasion by your brothers in arms and at the hospital where my friend underwent surgery for stab wounds inflicted by you roaches. Oh, and there were local authorities involved. Do you know what happens when I'm stuck giving statements to constables? I want to pluck the eyeballs from those responsible and wear them as earrings.”

A brief flash of surprise widened his eyes only to be covered again. Aldith was becoming better at monitoring his reactions. “Your threats won't loosen my tongue. I have rights as an American citizen.”

“You gave up your rights the second you stepped foot in this household and attempted to cut off a comatose woman's head.” Gwen opened the file folder to show him copied pages. “Shall we start with the Celtic Cult of the Head, Mister Howel.”

His reactionary expression was much subtler this time. “I have nothing to say to you.”

“According to this information, the Celts believed the head, not the heart, was the seat of the soul, and several ancient stories reference burying heads as an act of honor to the dead. Also, there are instances on Celtic battlefields where the heads of their enemies have been severed and tied onto the skeletons of horses or other wooden formations. Tell me if I'm getting warmer.” 

No reaction that time. 

“Given this information, we can conclude that you were after Peggy's soul, either as a misconstrued act of honor or a representation of your might. Cutting off the head of a comatose woman doesn't really make you look mighty, so I'm guessing it's more to the former.”

Silence.

“You sat here in your own mess for six days rather than inform us of your affiliations. Six days, Aldith. And we discovered the information anyway, making the enjoyment of your own pungent mess an absolutely pointless endeavor on your part.”

He deserved credit for his new-found unflappable attitude when he responded, “I demand my rights.”

“The question we're stuck on is why you and yours are obsessed with her head. What makes her soul so special? How did you find her? What were you planning on doing with her soul once you had it?”

“I demand my rights.”

“Your brothers who attacked this morning were much better trained and well organized than you. Do they exist farther up in the hierarchy? How many more attacks will we field before they get the bloody hint that they will have to walk over my cold, rotten corpse to get her?”

“I demand my rights.”

The broken-record routine finally snapped a nerve. She surged across the table to grab a fistful of his hair and introduced face to table with considerable force. “And I demand that the people I care about be immune from harm!”

Blood poured from his nose and mouth when he managed to lift his head again.

For her part, she seemed just as startled by her explosion of violence. The violence itself wasn't shocking. It was more her hair-trigger loss of control. Three months ago, she could have conducted the interview without losing her temper. Now that her feelings were involved, controlling said temper seemed impossible. It was startling.

Howel tilted his head back and pinched his nose in an effort to stop the bleeding. “You just broke my nose, you crazy bitch! I demand your badge number. Someone is going to hear about this.”

“Badge number? I am neither police, government, nor military. Rather, I am a practitioner of vigilante justice. I make sure no-accounts like you spill information leading to the protection of people who are far more important and worthy than you. The nature of my work gives me immunity from prosecution in a frightening number of countries including this one.”

Howel glared at her over the fingers clamped around his nose.

“The following are your only two options, so listen carefully. Firstly, I can leave you there in your own mess until your skin deteriorates. Open sores will result that will become infected with your own fecal matter. Eventually, you'll succumb to the infection. Secondly, you can cooperate with my questioning and provide us as much detailed information as you can. Cooperation will earn you more comfortable living conditions and freedom from that chair.”

“And then you'll kill me when I've outlived my usefulness?”

“Cooperation is rewarded instead of punished. When I'm assured you have nothing further to contribute, I'll have you dropped off in Australia with a little money for your immediate survival, work papers, but no passport.”

He stared down at the tabletop, lips contorted with his bodily discomfort.

“This is your last chance. Option one or option two, and the offer expires in thirty seconds.”

“I'll cooperate,” he finally said in a rush while squeezing his eyes closed. “My orders come from higher-ranking commanders, so much of what you'll want to know has been compartmentalized. I'm a soldier and not a member of those in the know.”

“Why Peggy?”

She spent two hours in the Boom Room pumping the rotten blighter for information. Every now and then, she returned to a question previously asked, asking it in a new fashion the second time to see if he kept his story straight. Inconsistencies indicated untruths, but he nailed the same content every time. That wasn't to say she was taking his answers at face value, though. He had every reason to lie.

Most of the information was low level intelligence. Howel claimed he was a new initiate running one of his first missions. His team had been given the target and were expected to independently carry it out without questions asked. All they'd been told was that their target emanated certain pheromones that were pleasing to Him, and Mother Carys needed them eradicated.

What was the sudden rush of missions steeped heavily in mythology? Next thing she knew, someone would ask her to find the Holy Grail and praise Jesus because she was the reincarnation of Mary Magdalene. That was the day she hanged up her S.H.I.E.L.D badge and went into retirement.

 

**Daily Notes: Seems like the more I care about someone, the less control I have when they're placed into danger. Truth is that I don't know how to care about people in a healthy manner. When the Hell have I ever engaged in healthy relationships? Probably has something to do with the headmaster in the workhouse I was shuffled into using the kids as receptacles for his lust. That probably contributed to my absolute irreverence toward religion. A supposedly religious man raping kids? They can all rot.**


	6. 4 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A new year, a new ally.

**4 January, 1962**

Breath fogged with each exhalation inside the tiny concrete room, prompting Gwen to retrieve a sweater from Peggy's satchel. She'd become accustomed to caring for her lover's needs over the past three weeks, so it took no significant time to dress the other woman more warmly and settle her back into bed. Practiced fingers worked through the sweater's over-large buttons. She added a second blanket to the cocoon in which she'd wrapped Agent Carter and repositioned the corner of Mister Jarvis' personal Mount Doom upon noting the tip of his stockinged toes peeking out.

Making the initial call to Colonel Fury, moving their loved ones into one of his safe houses and relying on his generosity, had been a bitter pill. After two more attacks by the Cult of the Head, though, moving had become a logical must. Times like these made her grateful for Fury's incessant paranoia.

A snippet of conversation from inside the colonel's office, the door cracked enough for her to overhear him murmuring, intrigued her. She paused. The mental debate between eavesdropping and respecting his privacy felt much the same as Atlas straining beneath the weight of the globe.

“Have Ralston take you to the hospital, Baby. An emergency came up. Call this number when it starts, so I can at least be there via conference call.”

The phone clicking as it settled back onto the cradle signaled her cue to make like a hockey player and get the puck out of there. Darting into the common room, she refilled her coffee and appeared perfectly clueless as to what she'd overheard by the time Nick rejoined them. Howard, bent over maps spread across the dining table, glanced up when their unlikely ally arrived.

“It's too dank in that room, Colonel Fury. Given their compromised health, they are more prone to contracting things like pneumonia from being in the cold and damp. Do you have a kerosene heater?”

Howard said, “Ventilation in there is too shoddy to allow for the use of a kerosene heater. The carbon monoxide would build up over time and kill them.”

“We're talking about something as simple as heating a room. There must be a way to heat a buggering basement to prevent the people we love from coming down with secondary infections.”

Stark gave the matter a moment of thought. “If you'll return to the house and collect a package out of storage labeled 'Argon Repulsor Coils,' we can use the prototype to heat a small room. A colleague and I have been working on the design, but our calculations indicate the completed reactor will be substantially larger than the laws of efficiency allow for single home use. The coils, however, should work well enough for our present purposes.”

Laughter interrupted their conversation. Colonel Fury's chuckles were tinged with disbelief as he glanced back and forth between his two guests. “Or I could just turn on the furnace. You know what a furnace is, don't you? Lovely piece of technology that forces hot air through vents.”

Her eyes rolled hard. “You could have mentioned that as an option five minutes ago, Colonel.”

“You didn't ask.”

“Silly me. Should I also inquire about whether or not you have ammunition here in your bunker?”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

Her jaw ached from chewing the tough meat of her antagonistic rejoinder. They were Fury's guests. Mister Jarvis and Peggy's safety hinged on his good will. Something told her Fury was going to be one of three things: a source of immense irritation, an unexpected friend, or one of those individuals whose sarcasm was akin to cement shoes in the middle of the Atlantic.

“Where are we with mission planning?” she finally inquired.

“Stark's working on mapping the environs around the 145th Street building Aldith tipped us off to. Our best bet is to stake out the area and begin weeding through the individuals seen coming and going. One of them must be their leader. We find out who and make him squeal like a pig.”

She nibbled the end of a thumb while considering his proposal. “They make bacon out of squealing pigs. Seems to me being turned into bacon and processed through my digestive tract is almost just punishment for their crimes. I like the way you think.”

“A compliment? From the British Murder Barbie? I feel I've just won at life.”

Scales were tipping more toward Option Two on her list of possibilities when it came to the role Colonel Fury would play in her life. “So Flick Five.”

“Compartmentalization. I've already informed you I'm not at liberty to share my contact's identifying information. Unlike many people, I don't cave under the pressure of nagging. My mother could have won an Olympic medal in the sport of nagging. Trust me, I've built up an immunity.”

Gwen took note of a surprising amount of warmth getting him to discuss his mother generated. His eyes lightened, and she felt a momentary pang of longing. She couldn't remember her own mother. Didn't know her name. The only evidence attesting to the fact she'd even had a mother was the impossibility for mammals to hatch from eggs. Contrary to popular rumor, she was a warm-bodied mammal instead of a cold-blooded reptile.

“You understand how difficult it is for me to accept intelligence from sources that haven't been vetted?”

“After that business in Berlin, I'd say the vetting process has proven their intelligence can be trusted.”

“The nature of my concern wasn't whether or not the information was valid. It was, in point of fact, whether or not I inadvertently jumped into bed with Vasily Karpov. The enemy of my enemy is only my friend if I won't massively regret putting him in power when I have to return to Russia to topple him after he's become embedded in their Communist infrastructure.”

“What do you mean?”

“You're an intelligent man. Must I really draw you a flow chart? Alexander Shelepin was promoted over Karpov's head despite him almost single-handedly building the framework for the Soviet intelligence community. He stood the most to gain by shaming Shelepin into retirement and is presently basking in the glow of his recent promotion to Nikita Khrushchev's newest favorite son. In fact, he's in Moscow living the good life on the government's dime.”

“What are you accusing me of?” Fury's poker face was frustratingly good.

“Putting it completely indelicately, pimping me out to General Karpov. I think it's obvious Flick Five is a member of Karpov's team, a man or woman who had ties to the SSR, and given that you inherited leadership of the Howling Commandos, that puts you in a particularly good position for knowing the intimate details of SSR servicemen and women.”

“That's an astounding leap of logic, Director. How do you know Flick Five isn't a valid US operative?”

“Lady and gentlemen, that is the million dollar question. Did I just dance with the devil and contribute to his meteoric rise from obscurity? Or can I continue sleeping at night knowing my information came from a reliable loyalist to allied forces?”

“Do you want the truth or some version of the truth that will contribute to your restful slumber?”

“I always want the truth.”

“Truth is I don't know for certain, but I strongly suspect you just broke your dancing shoes.”

“You're an ass-faced slag.” The barometer swung back toward Fury being a complete irritation.

Stark had to catch her about the waist to keep her from going across the table, as she was in the process of launching herself toward the odious cunt-waffle the second he completed his comment. She struggled against Howard's hold until realizing her flailing put him in danger of taking an elbow to the face, but the desire to pound Fury's into the tabletop was intense.

To his credit, Fury didn't so much as step backward. Instead, he stared down the hatred pouring off her without flinching. “Would you rather have put Karpov into power or risked the entirety of West Berlin's population being destroyed by biological warfare? Sometimes, we must pick our battles carefully, Director Holcomb.”

“You could have bloody told me. At least my decision would have then been informed instead of being played like a puppet. If you hadn't noticed, women in this business face an uphill battle toward gaining the respect of their colleagues. Representatives of the United Nations are poised with red pens in hand waiting for me to make a mistake and use that as an excuse to write off my gender as incompetent.”

“I hadn't thought about that.”

“Try!”

Gwen experienced a moment of dèjá vu. All those times when her lover had practically begged her to look at a situation from a different perspective, that she “try” to understand the impact on Peggy should she be careless with her life, finally made sense. It was like slipping a puzzle piece into place. Tension drained away, and she sagged in Howard's arms. Why hadn't she learned that lesson before when Peggy had been awake and coherent enough to appreciate her new perspective?

“You can let go now, Howard. I'm not of a mind to pulverize him anymore.”

“Look, I'm sorry if you feel manipulated, but I deemed the situation intense enough that any possible risk of accepting information from Karpov's team was worth the reward. You're right, though, I didn't particularly care what kind of back-blow your gender might receive. Look at it this way. Your team saved West Berlin. Every citizen there owes his or her life to S.H.I.E.L.D. You can go home a hero and no one ever need know where the information came from.”

She nodded once.

“You'll have to forgive her, Colonel. She's like taking a weapon of mass destruction to a knife fight. Completely effective at obliterating your enemy but not so much with the finer points of subtlety.”

“Eat my arsehole,” she muttered with the barest hint of a smile.

“That's something I doubt Colonel Fury wants to see. Unless he's a complete voyeur, in which case, only if you're feeling particularly frisky, Honey.”

Speaking of subtlety, something about their relationship had changed during the recent upheaval. The hierarchical dynamics of S.H.I.E.L.D's top three were normally rigorously defined. Peggy and Howard always had and, she'd thought until moments ago, always would exist in the top echelon while she hovered somewhere beneath, the willing receptacle of their lust with none of the same emotional equality. Things felt different since Peggy's coma. She couldn't decide between feeling honored by her new-found equality or completely freaked out.

Howard frowned and brushed a tendril of hair away from the side of her throat, wincing in sympathy upon grazing his knuckles over a patch of inflamed skin that looked like the beginnings of psoriasis. “Have you been forgetting to take your medication?”

Inflamed skin protesting touch made her cringe. “I've been taking it regularly, but the serum isn't as effective anymore. The mix needs to be re-calibrated, but with everyone's focus on Peggy, I figured it could wait. Getting her back is more important.”

“Silly girl,” he breathed. “Peggy is certainly my main point of focus at present, but it will only take a couple of hours to remix the serum. I will leave instructions for my interns to keep abreast with the changes your body undergoes. If something happens to me, and it will eventually and long before you will ever stop needing the serum, they'll need to take over the periodic recalibration.”

The idea of something happening to Howard sent her into an immediate downward spiral. Heartbreak was inevitable when she had stopped aging while the people she loved continued their steady march toward retirement and death. Why did they think she'd avoided developing the intimacy of their bond?

 

**Daily Notes: Today, I developed a grudging respect for Colonel Fury.**

**Post-Dated 13 May, 1997 Flabbergasted to learn that Fury was promoted to the directorship. The World Security Council got it right for a change. He's the kind of leader S.H.I.E.L.D needs after languishing under a series of less competent directors. The man is willing to make bold choices.**


	7. 10 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Operation: Drive Nick Fury to insanity begins.

**10 January, 1962**

“I don't want your stupid candy,” Stark grouched when she offered him the bag of M&Ms.

“Well fine. All you had to say was 'no thank you.' Manners, Howard. Learn them.”

“You're one to lecture about manners.” He glared pointedly at the feet propped on the dash of the '62 Impala. He'd purchased it that morning for the sole purpose of mingling with downtown traffic while they staked out the building on 145th Street.

In response, Gwen skimmed the soles of her sneakers over his dashboard while offering a pointed glare of her own, her body language daring him to do something about it. “Is there any coffee left, Colonel?”

Colonel Fury, who was stretched out on the back bench seat, shook a thermos to determine the contents. “Nope. We're bone dry.”

Her head thumped against the backrest as she groaned out her frustration over the slow creep of time. Uncomfortable, she shifted to find a better position only to wind up banging her knee on the dash and sliding back to her original spot, a sore knee the only reward for her efforts. Next, she leveled threats of strangulation on Father Time before popping another M&M in her mouth and crunching the hard outer shell that promised to melt in her mouth but not in her hand.

“Good Galileo, if you don't stop wiggling, you can wait outside in the alley. And stop chewing your stupid M&Ms so loudly. It's irritating.”

“What in the buggering Hell did my candy ever do to you?”

“You ate all the green ones. What remains can barely be considered candy let alone M&Ms.”

“Gor Blimey, it's not like the colors are flavored!”

“Then why did you deliberately pick the green ones out to eat first?!”

“Eating green things makes me feel like I'm grazing on moss. I wanted to get them over with before they contaminated the other colors with their very existence.”

“No wonder your cholesterol is through the roof.”

“High cholesterol is for fat people,”

“And people who consume more sugar than contained in a sugar factory and who refuse to eat a staggeringly large percentage of the vegetable family. You know, those unimportant nutrition sources like broccoli, spinach, and bell peppers.”

“I've never refused to eat green fruits and veg. I just don't like to. Look, I'm sorry I ate your favorite color. It was inconsiderate of me. Are you happy now?”

“No, I'm not happy. Being sorry you demolished them from a place of hatred, to get them eaten as quickly as possible so you could savor your favorite colors, does not put green M&Ms in my mouth, therefore, your guilt is pointless to me.”

“Bleeding Hell,” she whispered beneath her breath, but the approach of a car from the other end of the street brought a hush to the Impala's interior. She removed her feet from off the dash in a rush.

The glint of street lamps off twin lights mounted on top signified a police cruiser, so she slouched far enough so as not to be seen from outside the car. Fingers locked onto Howard to pull him down along with her. Avoiding any police entanglements was paramount to the efficiency of their stake out.

Tense seconds passed before the cruiser continued down the street.

Upon returning to her less-than-comfortable position, she whacked his bicep. “How many times did I tell you not to get the newest model from the dealership? We're in the middle of Harlem and standing out like morning wood at an erectile dysfunction seminar.”

Fury made a strangled sound from the back seat.

“You said to get a normal car that wouldn't attract attention. How is this not a normal vehicle? It's a Chevy, for the love of science. You can't get any more normal than a Chevy.”

“The only people in this neighborhood who can afford a brand new vehicle are gang bangers, drug lords, and pimps, and they know better than to leave their cars parked on the side of the street. Everyone else is too poor to walk off the lot with the latest model.”

“Well forgive me for...”

“Jesus Christ, will you two stop bickering?!” Nick exploded. “I can't believe I'm stuck in a confined space with you two for the foreseeable future.”

Both S.H.I.E.L.D cohorts turned as one to glare into the backseat at the interloper.

“You've never had it so good being blessed with our sunny dispositions,” Howard quipped.

Things quieted in the Impala after Fury's minor explosion to allow time to crawl by uninterrupted.

Nearly two hours passed before seeing any further activity on 145th Street. It was just shy of three in the morning when a tan vehicle arrived and parked in front of the deli to allow an elegantly dressed man to step from inside and stroll into the alley. Four bodyguards closed ranks around him for added protection. He disappeared into the building via a side entrance.

She rattled off a list of descriptors. “Male, late fifties, approximately one point seven meters and fifteen stone. Well dressed, receding hairline. Accompanied by four burly individuals. Don't recognize him as anyone I've seen moving in Stark's social circles. Someone that elegantly dressed must belong to the same financial caste.”

“Those details aren't the real clues to his identity,” Howard muttered.

She glanced over to find him practically mashed to the windshield and staring at the vehicle parked diagonally to them. It was a vintage four door sedan straight out of the thirties. She could remember watching cars of the same body style roll through London's best neighborhoods while scrounging through waste set out for collection. Running boards and spare tires mounted to side fenders added to the feeling of vintage opulence.

“It's a rare luxury model,” she said moments later. “Does that tag mounted to the front say Zeppelin?”

“That's a nineteen thirty-eight Maybach DS8. The Maybach factories in Stuttgart, Germany transitioned from making Zeppelin parts to producing one of the world's most luxurious car brands. As much as I love Lucky Boxers, it doesn't measure up to the DS8. That was one of the most powerful cars on the market when it was produced.”

“And that is supposed to help us determine the identity of our new mark?” Fury asked.

“If it contains the Variorex eight speed gear box with a vacuum shift it makes that vehicle one of only one hundred ever produced. I am honestly trying not to seethe with jealousy here.”

Their companion finally understood what Stark was getting at and said, “Then there must be a paper trail. You don't own something that exclusive without someone having your name on file. Drive by and get the license plate number, and then we can get the fuck out of this car.”

 

**Daily Notes: Today's lesson, ladies and gentleman: Never put Howard Stark and the British Murder Barbie into an enclosed space for six hours and expect pleasantries. Ninety percent sure Colonel Fury will murder us before much longer. In better news, I was introduced to Gabe Jones of the Howling Commandos today. He's babysitting Mr. Jarvis and Peggy. Pleasant man. He recognizes Peggy's greatness.**


	8. 14 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury's mind is a scary, scary place. They finally get a lead on their Welsh cult when feces is introduced to a fan.

**14 January, 1962**

Fury glanced back and forth between the two heads visible above the seats inside the Impala, a vehicle he'd since coined “The First Circle of Hell” (tFCoH for short). Being back inside tFCoH wasn't something you could prepare for. Returning there with the Source of Great Irritation (tSoGI) and the British Murder Barbie (tBMB) had been the stuff of nightmares, as their series of stakeouts had brought to light the absolute madness existing in the top tier of S.H.I.E.L.D.

TSoGI presently had his head buried in a bucket of fried chicken appropriated from a restaurant at Nick's behest. If he was going to be stuck in a car for another eight hours waiting to follow their mark back to his place of residence, there would damn well be food involved. Trouble was that tSoGI, previously disclaiming hunger or the desire for a snack, had taken one whiff of the concoction and demanded a share of the booty. TBMB, upon hearing her companion's exclamation about fried chicken being the next best thing since mass spectrometers ( _whatever the fuck that was_ ), had joined in on the feast like the pride leader demanding her share of the kill. His two companions had somehow missed partaking in fried chicken for most of their lives.

In short, his booty had been seized, and the ravenous dogs had promptly begun devouring the take-out. Sure, he was presently without his own fried chicken, but they couldn't bicker like an old married couple with their mouths full of food. Things had been quiet in the front seat since but for an occasional mumble of appreciation or groan of delight. Blessed peace might allow his ears to stop ringing and do some recovering from the previous nights they'd spent cooped up together.

“Did you get any napkins?” tSoGI inquired some time later when he'd eaten his fill.

“I don't see any in the bag. Just use your pants legs.”

“That's disgusting.”

“It isn't like you aren't richer than Midas and able to purchase a new pair. You could wipe your hands on the finest silk from China without threatening to drag the bottom of even one of your accounts.”

“It's the principle of the matter. We are not animals who wipe grease on the nearest textile. If you wipe yours on the car seats, you'll be out here removing the stain with your tongue when we get home.”

“Was that supposed to be a threat? Because that sounded more like the promise of dessert.” TBMB produced a toothy grin. “I was born in Britain. Of the two of us, I should be the one noted for my stiff upper lip. You, however, are wound tighter than Ahab's anus when introduced to Moby's dick.”

“Why does everything relate back to sex with you?”

“You're one to talk Mister My Life's Goal is to Sleep With Every Playboy Centerfold.”

“Not true. However, if you ever need extra cash, I can put in a good word for you with Hefner. I would put your body up against any of the centerfolds.”

“That's the sweetest thing you've ever said to me, Howard.”

“I know how to be complimentary once in a while. Now, about those napkins.”

“You were already told that I don't have the napkins.”

“Then find me some, Holcomb.”

“Do I look like your servant? I am the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. The director of S.H.I.E.L.D does not fetch napkins like a common waitress.”

“Jesus-jumped-up-Christ, I have the napkins!” Fury exclaimed. So much for peace and quiet. He fumbled around in the brown paper bag and threw a wad of napkins into the front seat.

TSoGI glanced over his shoulder, noted concern pinching his brow. “Colonel Fury, I'm worried about how your stress level is affecting your heart. Someone who is as tightly strung as you is at much greater risk of a heart attack. You should see someone to help you develop techniques to decompress.”

“I'll decompress as soon as I can spend more than two nights away from being locked in here with the pair of you! Your bickering is driving me nuts.”

Gwen held up her hand when the DS8 arrived finally. Silence descended inside the Impala. Grigor Delwyn—Stark had been right about the paper trail linking Delwyn to one of the one hundred Maybachs of that model in existence—emerged from the vehicle along with his bodyguards.

According to their records, the man had purchased it from an exclusive auto auction in Germany, an auction Stark hadn't been invited to. The amount of bitching he'd engaged in following that piece of information had threatened their temporary alliance. Decisive action involving a stun gun and mass amounts of tape had been threatened to shut him up.

Unfortunately, the car had been picked up from port by Delwyn's goons rather than being delivered to his place of residence, and records listed his home address as being in Wales. They'd come up with bupkis with regards to where he was currently staying. Tailing him back to his location proved the most efficient means of locating him, and that meant a return to tFCoH. Fury's day had been ruined.

“We need to get eyes and ears inside that building somehow,” tBMB said.

“We'll need to get close enough in order to deploy a listening device. I have a prototype small enough to avoid cursory detection and with long enough range to transmit from the building to our car.”

“Tomorrow evening, I'll go undercover as a local prostitute trying to pick up a john. Hopefully attempting to solicit his patronage will allow me to get close enough to deploy the device.”

Nick suddenly laughed at the ridiculousness of her statement. “You look about as much like a prostitute as I do Uncle Sam. Your body is much too athletic. Also, we're near central Harlem. Do you see a lot of white folks about? This area is mainly Asian, Hispanic, and black.”

“Are you volunteering to install the plant, then?” asked tSoGI.

“Better me than one of you.” Nick had a feeling he would regret volunteering and repeated the mantra that had gotten him this far without murdering his temporary allies. He was doing it for Peggy Carter.

Every member of the Howling Commandos respected the Hell out of Agent Carter. They felt protective of her. She had been important to Captain Rogers, and they would uphold his memory by defending the man's “best girl” with their lives. Those men had given everything during the war only to be disappointed by a series of commanders who'd consistently devalued them. Fury was determined not to make the same mistakes, to uphold the needs of his men and return them to greatness.

The wait seemed interminable, but Delwyn eventually returned to his vehicle. A realization dawned, fingers white-knuckling the seat cushion as a result, when Stark pulled away from the curb following the DS8. Tailing their suspect could evolve into a high speed chase. He was about to hurtle (read _“crash into a building and die a fiery death”_ ) through the streets of Manhattan with a madman (read _“completely psychotic motherfucker who had helped juice a man up with a funky sauce that had had a proven track record of turning the heads of men into red skulls”_ ) behind the wheel.

In short, his blood pressure skyrocketed, and he collapsed under the desire to back seat drive by shouting instructions. They lost sight of the DS8. Panic lodged in his throat, and he lurched forward to clutch the front seat. “Jesus, Stark, you're going to lose them! Speed the Hell up because I am not spending another night in this Goddamned car with you and the British Murder Barbie.”

TSoGI slowed down instead.

The vehicle came into sight briefly as it slowed to make a sharp turn onto Saint Nicholas Avenue (read _“Saint Nicholas Fury Avenue, whose namesake died and was canonized from the combined horror of tSoGI's crazy ass driving and tBMB's SMAW eyes for daring to lecture her evil overlord while they attempted to save the sweetheart of a presumed-dead national icon”_ ). They lost sight of their target again. Fury's fingers felt like they would snap under the pressure of his grip.

“Listen, Stark, if you'll turn down Convent Avenue onto West 141st, you can intersect with Saint Nick near the city college. Jesus, would you fucking listen to me?!” The former was said as they approached the suggested turn off, the latter as they hurtled past it.

Stark's alternate route ran parallel with their target for several city blocks, the two vehicles separated by Saint Nicholas Park, as they continued heading toward Lower Manhattan. Another madcap maneuver launched them through a parking lot, barely kissing the curb, where the reemerged in front of the DS8.

“Would you pull the Hell over and let me drive?”

“Stop back seat driving, Nick. Don't you trust me?”

His response was immediate. “No, and that's Colonel Fury to you.”

Their pace was more sedate by the time Saint Nicholas transitioned into Manhattan Avenue, engine sounds filling a few beats of silence that followed Fury's announcement.

“What did I ever do to you?” Howard finally asked in a tone that sounded almost tentative.

“Don't read anything personal into it, Stark. The number of people I trust is limited. Where I come from, you don't live long if you make a habit of trusting people. That's all.”

“That's a good philosophy in this business, but some things require a leap of faith. One day, you may be faced with having to take your own leap,” tBMB said. “Anyhow, you can stop yowling about Howard's driving. He placed fifth and third in consecutive years at the Monaco Grand Prix during the late fifties. The man can drive as well as he can fly.”

Nick grumbled about the complete lack of reassurance gleaned from her endorsement of Stark's driving. After all, she was as crazy as her mentor. Gwen's endorsement was to Nick Fury as sedatives were to a Galapagos tortoise; they didn't make a damn (read _“motherfucking”_ ) bit of difference.

The pair finally moved on to chattering about some nonsensical bit of research Stark had been engaged in regarding Agent Carter's leukocytes and the color yellow. Honestly, he tuned them out at that point and was able to unclench his fingers from the edge of the seat cushion once they'd abandoned the subject of trust and leaps of faith (read _“Hell to the fuck to the no”_ ). The only leap Nick Fury was making was from the backseat to the pavement the second the car stopped moving.

Credit should be given where due, though, as the new position ahead of their mark allowed tSoGI to observe their target car in the rear view mirror and remain inconspicuous in the process. The DS8 braked, but while it stopped at the curb out front of the Eldorado in Central Park West, the Impala continued around the corner until the two vehicles lost sight of one another. Stark eventually parked a couple of blocks away so they could backtrack on foot.

He emerged (read _“got the motherfucking fuck out of Dodge”_ ) and leaned against the front fender while awaiting his temporary allies to disembark. Matches flared to life while he lit a cigarette, the orange glow of the tip a spark of brightness in the dim alley.

TSoGI gave him what he interpreted as a dirty look before hissing, “Stomp that out before you give away our position. We don't know how many of Delwyn's men are watching the building.”

“There are almost two million people in Manhattan. The chance of me lighting one cigarette in an alley two blocks away from the Eldorado and giving away that we are about to invade his domicile are slim to none. Now, either you know something you're not sharing, or you're paranoid. Pick one.”

“Boys.” Gwen insinuated her six feet of muscle in between them when Stark tensed like he was going to throw a punch. “We're not measuring our dicks tonight. If you can't play nicely, then one or both of you can wait in the car. Now belt up before I take the piss out of both of you.”

“Nuh uh. You aren't going in there by yourself but Colonel Fury should wait here. Someone of his color loitering inside an apartment building in Central Park West will automatically draw attention.”

Having had about as much as any reasonable person could stand of Howard Stark's version of passive-aggressiveness, he pushed himself away from the fender and insinuated his larger bulk into the other man's personal space. “You got something to say, Stark, you'd better just say it.”

It happened so fast he didn't know what had hit him until he was staring up at tBMB from the pavement, his palms stinging and ass aching from the impact. Despite close quarters (read _“Fury's black ass could have gotten drunk off the liquor fumes emanating from tSoGI's mouth”_ ) favoring his bigger bulk, Stark's attack dog had shoved him to the ground without so much as straining. Being tall and muscular for a woman didn't mean squat when leverage was against her. 

“How did you do that?”

“If you ever lay an angry hand on Mister Stark, you will lose it faster than you can say 'Queen Victoria's Piss pot.' I will put your promising future in a blender with brimstone, bitterness, and cheap vodka and swill it like a shake while sitting upon my throne of corpses,” she snarled.

“How did you do that?” he asked again.

“My code name is Popeye,” she shot back, “and my love affair with spinach legendary. And for the record? He wasn't arranging us based upon color value. We're in the Upper West Side. Do you see a lot of black folks about?” She mimicked his words from earlier that night perfectly.

Nick got to his feet. The number of women working in the field of espionage and international security was miniscule. A file stored in the Hall of Persons in his mind palace and embellished with a picture of a Norse Valkyrie was accessed. It included a thought file dedicated to a list of women he was personally glad worked on their side instead of the enemy's. Previously, that list had included one name: Agent Peggy “The Prime Minister of the Secret Science Reserve” (or tPMotSSR for short) Carter. He visualized himself jotting down another: Director Gwendolyn “tBMB” Holcomb.

By the time he got himself sorted out, tSoGI was leaning against the car jotting notes in a small steno pad, looking for all the world like he couldn't give a rat's ass about the outcome of their minor skirmish, if one could even classify that as a skirmish. TBMB's SMAW bored into him and was accompanied by body language that dared him to make something of her behavior. Instead, he waved them off so they could get the needed information.

He watched the pair until they disappeared out of sight before returning to tFCoH where he hunkered down to wait. There was also an unspecified amount of stewing involved. You didn't become the black commander of a prestigious group like the Howling Commandos without facing your fair share of bigoted assholes. The number of men who'd compared him to monkeys and had found the monkeys superior leaders was more than he cared to admit and less than some might assume.

What concerned him more was his immediate labeling of Stark's comment as more than what it had been. Jumping to conclusions was a bad (read _“motherfucking shitty”_ ) habit to get into. He didn't want to be one of those men who walked around with a racially-charged chip on his shoulder. Treating every person as their own individual on an equal level until they proved themselves otherwise was much more his style. In short, that behavior needed to be nipped in the bud.

The thought that struck him after pondering through that conundrum was to realize Stark's perfect opportunity to slander his character had come and gone. TSoGI could have meant his value was lessened by the color of his skin but hadn't. It was possible, by the barest margin of recordable data, tSoGI tipped slightly in the “trust” direction.

***

The atmosphere inside the tFCoH quieted during the drive back to the safe house located beneath an apartment building in Hell's Kitchen. All three occupants seemed content to keep thoughts to themselves until tSoGI parked in a public garage several blocks from their destination. Gray dawn accompanied by a misting rain made the waking city seem bleak, but chilly air hitting his cheeks served to eradicate sluggishness from another sleepless night.

Nerve damage from an injury sustained during The War meant his leg was numb and tingling from lack of proper circulation when he struggled from the car. The limb went out from under him, and he pitched toward the ground, face threatening intimate acquaintance with pavement. He would have hit hard (read _“slammed into the pavement like a wrecking ball followed by an unspecified number of 'motherfuckers' and 'Goddamn its'”_ ) were it not for tSoGI suddenly arresting his fall. Fury's chest connected with Stark's shoulder instead.

The two men stared at one another for a moment, both equally surprised by Stark's perfervid scramble to save him from a spill. Fury nearly regretted the action, almost wished tSoGI had allowed him to face-plant against the concrete. Another tick migrated from the “Not Even To Save My Life” column to the “I Might Trust Him With My Third Cousin Twice Removed” column.

“I swear to the god of chitlins,” Fury began (read _“I hate motherfucking chitlins, but everybody tries shoving them down my throat because I'm black”_ ) with a grumble in his voice, “if you kiss me, your face is going to run smack dab into a sledgehammer.”

“Kiss. Kiss. Kiss,” chanted tBMB from the other side of the car.

“What does it say about me when my girlfriend wants my face to run into a sledgehammer?”

TBMB clearly had no idea what to do with being referred to as Stark's girlfriend. She opened her mouth three times to speak only to close it again before anything emerged. Finally, she said, “I just think it would be hilarious if you kissed Colonel Fury.”

“I'm surrounded by crazy people,” Nick muttered. His first step away from the car proved the lingering weakness in his leg. He wobbled again.

“Slow down, Big Guy,” tSoGI said while grabbing his elbow to steady him.

“Man, I'm getting too damn old for this.”

“You? Never. You'll outlive us all,” Stark responded.

He snorted and didn't extricate his arm until certain he could remain on his own damn feet. You had an expiration date working in the business of espionage and warfare. Every day beyond that expiration date marked one day closer to being out-gunned by a younger, more agile enemy. He was beginning to feel the full weight of being on the other side of forty.

“We should get a few hours of sleep before planning a raid on the Eldorado,” Gwen said, interrupting their brief bonding moment. “Sergeant Jones could likely use some fresh air and might be persuaded to fetch us coffee and pastries while we're napping.”

“Sergeant Jones is not a secretary nor a gopher, but he might be persuaded,” he agreed.

Their amiable banter continued during the trek to the apartment building only to dissipate when they found the side entrance, disguised as a maintenance door, hanging askance. Damage marks along the door jam and hinges indicated forced entry. Tensing, he reached for his sidearm.

TSoGI and tBMB reacted in time with him, moving into flanking positions without needing to be instructed. Holcomb unholstered her weapon, stepped to the side to keep her body out of range of anyone hiding in the stairwell, and used her free hand to push the door open. Stark, meanwhile, pressed himself against he opposite side of the door with weapon at the ready to bring up the rear.

Nick moved into position and took point into the stairwell. No one waited to ambush them, so he proceeded down to the ninety degree turn where a wall provided cover for anyone defending the safe house. There, a second stairwell turned and dropped them the rest of the way inside. The construction prevented anyone from breaking in the door and having a straight shot inside.

A quick glance around the corner revealed the first of the bodies. An attacker had slumped there with his life's blood pooling around him and forming a gristly waterfall to the bunker floor. He crouched beside the body to check for a pulse and get a look into the main room. No pulse, and no invaders took pot shots at him from below. The victim, solidly built and wearing dark clothing, had succumbed to a gunshot wound to the throat. Blood still drizzled sluggishly from the wound, so death hadn't been more than a handful of moments ago. 

“Colonel, that you?” Gabe's voice rasped from deeper in the bunker.

Hearing the weakness in Sergeant Jones' voice sent a jolt of fear straight through him. He hurried past bodies littered with multiple gunshot wounds and lacerations from Gabe's combat knife in order to reach the man, who was slumped in the doorway leading into Carter and Jarvis' room. Jones clutched a towel against his own stomach.

“Jesus Christ, don't die on me, Jones. You're my favorite.”

“Don't think there's much I can do about not dying at this point, Sir.”

“Quit that kind of talk. We'll get you to a hospital and have you on your feet in no time, Soldier.” He grimaced while easing the cloth away from Gabe to find several puncture wounds turning the man's torso into Swiss cheese. Copious amounts of blood had soaked into the towel.

“There were too many of them. Took out as many as I could, but they overwhelmed me. Couldn't stop them. My God, I'm so sorry. Couldn't stop them from taking Agent Carter. Cap's never gonna forgive me when they finally find him.”

The news prompted a terrible sound from behind him once his companions realized what had happened. Stark pulled off some acrobatic (read “motherfucking ballerina”) bullshit by diving over Gabe and him and hitting the floor on the other side in such a way he rolled to his feet without breaking stride. Holcomb, who was much too big to follow in a similar fashion, shouted for confirmation.

Nick's eyes tightened when the confirmation came. “Save your strength, Sergeant. There wasn't anything you could do. Captain Rogers will understand you did everything you could to protect her.”

The rattle in Jones' chest was frightening, but the man found enough oxygen to say, “Was looking forward to being Uncle Jones. Give 'em a kiss for me, okay? When you get back to Nam.” 

Having the twins mentioned aloud produced splinters of panic that nearly resulted in him covering Gabe's mouth. He glanced in Stark and Holcomb's directions to see if they'd overheard or found anything unusual about the sergeant's comment. Both appeared fixated on Peggy's abduction.

“Don't talk like that, Soldier. You're going to be there on their first birthday, do you hear me? I won't accept anything less than your full recovery.” Jones coughed again, small droplets of blood flecking his lips when he settled. “Jesus. Fuck. One of you get on the horn and call an ambulance!”

No response.

The fact that neither of his companions responded pissed him the Hell off (read “He wanted to eat their motherfucking faces”), so he surged to his feet and got in Holcomb's face, who happened to be closest. “Director Holcomb.”

Shell-shock became apparent, as the sound of his raised voice caused her to flinch and sink several inches toward the floor, forearms raising to protect her head from imaginary incendiary devices.

He'd witnessed the same condition numerous times in soldiers who'd seen too much combat or hadn't developed healthy coping mechanisms, and some of his anger dissipated. Not all of it, though. One of his men was bleeding out on the floor. The Howling Commandos would always come first. So to dislodge her from the grips of the shell-shock, he gave her a good shaking. You could tell the moment she reengaged with her surroundings.

“Ambulance. Right.”

Nick returned to applying pressure on Gabe's wounds. All that mattered was saving the sergeant's life. Everything else could wait until the man was on an operating table in the hands of competent surgeons.

“They took Peggy,” tSoGI said when he came to stand in the doorway. “Mister Jarvis attempted to defend her even in his weakened state but was knocked unconscious. He's coming to his senses now, but Peggy's gone. Fuck. Gwen, she's gone.”

Holcomb's voice cracked when she attempted to speak after returning from the phone call. She was forced to clear her throat and try again. “Ambulance is on the way, and Howel is dead. Looks like vines were woven together and used as a garrote to strangle him.”

The chaos of coming home to find your residence invaded, the people you cared about abducted or near death, and your prisoner murdered meant adrenaline carried you through the rest of the morning. In short, he wasn't tired anymore. He was ready to kill people, though. The paramedics arrived to load Gabe onto a stretcher and transport him to the hospital (Nick rode with them) where he was rushed into surgery to stop the internal bleeding (Nick's offer of super glue wasn't appreciated).

Sitting in an emergency ward while one of his minions chatted with the Grim Reaper reminded him for the umpteenth time why taking responsibility for the Howlers would turn him bald before his time. He rubbed a hand over buzzed hair. Couldn't much complain, though. The upper echelon had briefed him about the propensity for the Howling Commandos to find trouble before he'd agreed to the assignment. What no one had warned him about was the easiness of emotionally investing in them. 

They were breaking his heart one by one. Dugan's retirement and move to the backwaters of Canada had been hard. Gabe dying on him would be that much worse. Sergeant Jones had taught him a lot about determination, about gracefully shouldering the burden of having doors slammed in your face because of the color of your skin. Jones was a hard working and highly intelligent man who hadn't allowed the muck of society to rob him of opportunities. 

The thought of him dying because some Welsh troglodytes (read _“these motherfucking Welsh in my motherfucking plane”_ ) were trying to reincarnate Druidism made him sick. Jones had to live. Period.


	9. 15 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Howard and Gwen finally get a breakthrough.

**15 January, 1962**

Snot from crying made breathing more difficult. Gwen slouched on a wooden crate in the middle of the floor, her hands stained pink and a bucket of water situated near empty containers of sodium peroxide and vinegar. Scrubbing blood from a concrete floor couldn't take her mind away from Peggy's abduction. The unexpected surge of longing for Yakov did the trick, though. Because normal people yearned for Russian assassins who had shot their girlfriend.

Fucking the Russian had always distracted her, at least temporarily, from the chaos of her emotions. It was more than that, though, and she couldn't put her finger on the appropriate words in the dictionary to define her fixation on a man who was little better than a mass murderer. There was more to him than his kill count. She was determined to find out before putting him six feet under to get justice for Peggy. 

Howard's return caught her in the middle of wiping her nose on her forearm. Disgust, clearly visible in the way his lips contorted, prompted him to comment, “There are times I forget you were reared in a workhouse and spent your formative years living on the streets of London. You've become so proficient at aping people in upper middle class households that your lingering grossness is hardly noticeable. Then there are times when I catch you behaving with the manners of a goat.”

She wasn't sure if that was meant to be a compliment or derogatory and turned the conversation. “Their uniforms are different from those who attacked eight ninety, Fifth Avenue.” The bodies lacked the burlap hoods and were garbed in standard street-wear. Only their black coats, each containing a cloth badge sewn onto the right shoulder, marked them as belonging to a cohesive group. Embroidery on said patches depicted an open eye and a single word.

“You have any luck researching the patch?”

“Just that 'saith' is Welsh for the number seven. The willow garrote has some religious meaning for European paganism. Also, two Irish bog bodies who were ritualistically sacrificed were found with their nipples removed the way Howel's were. It must have some sort of significance.”

Stark's bottom impacted audibly against the seat of a chair, and he paused long enough to press his face into his hands. “Makes sense in an odd way. Base peoples often worshiped primordial elements responsible for making life possible. The sun, for instance. You can't grow crops without the sun, so praying to the sun seems natural to the unintelligent. Nourishment comes from a woman's nipples.”

“So they might place emphasis on the nipples as a source of life. I follow where you're going with this. Why willow is such an important aspect of pagan religions, I'll never understand. How is it any different than any other tree?”

“You are not an uneducated moron and know better than to ascribe religious undertones to inanimate objects. Thank Einstein. Religion may have served a purpose at one time to make culturally diverse tribes easier to govern, to bring a certain like-mindedness necessary for surviving when nature is out to kill you. Now it serves to make unimportant peons feel that their lives have meaning and to bolster their desire to dictate how others should live their lives.”

“Note to self: Cancel planned trip to Saint Patrick's Cathedral. Keep him the fuck away from the archbishop. Avoid culpability in starting a new holy war that pits Howard Stark against Pope John.”

It got a brief smile out of him, and he relaxed enough to lean back in his chair. A splash of rum was added to his coffee before sipping the contents. “I know Fury recommended we wait here until his return from hospital, but the longer we wait, the more time they have of completing their intentions.”

Most wouldn't have noticed the slight slurring of his words. Still others would have attributed him dropping the article an American would have used in front of “hospital” as spending too much time around Brits. Gwen recognized that his carefully constructed American accent—his parents had been British expats—was slipping. The American people preferred their military developments to come from a good old boy, an American nationalist whose sole interest was in defending the stars and stripes from the evils of Europe, Asia, and the Soviet Union. In short, Stark was halfway to Drunk Town.

That left her responsible for making clear decisions, and Fury hadn't just recommended they remain in the safe house; he'd outright instructed them to do so. Given that they were in an active alliance with him, they should probably respect some of his boundaries. Maybe he knew more about the situation than he was letting on. Maybe he had a good reason for delaying their departure to beat the living Hell out of Grigor Delwyn and save Peggy. Maybe...

She shrugged and said, “Buggering Hell, let's just go kill things.” Attempt Three at completing her New Years resolution to be more responsible swirled round the drain and flushed down the loo.

She shoved up from her crate and stalked to the gun closet to retrieve her sidearms and fresh ammo. When all the shit was flushed down the drain, one thing remained: Peggy came first. Peggy would always come first.

Both had their gear together and were preparing to leave when Mister Jarvis shuffled to stand in the doorway. The man was half-dressed with shirt tails untucked and his customary bow tie draped around his neck but untied. “Allow me fifteen minutes, Sir, and I will come with you.”

Real panic caused Howard to fumble with his whiskey flask. It was abandoned on the table while he darted over to tuck himself under Mister Jarvis' arm to help support the man. “Uh uh! You are going back to bed before you fall on your face.”

“They took her from under my watch, Sir. Sergeant Jones did everything he could to defend us including taking several stab wounds to the stomach to prevent them from leaving, but she was my responsibility. How can I do anything but my absolute best to bring her home safely?”

Seeing Mister Jarvis overcome with emotion made Gwen very angry. She hurried over to help Howard support him, moving close enough she could kiss the older gentleman's cheek. “Under normal circumstances, I would agree that you should have the chance to avenge Peggy, but you're in no condition to fight. Now it's back to bed with you. Director's orders.”

“I'm not S.H.I.E.L.D, Director. Neither are you my employer. You cannot give me orders.”

“Well I can, and it's time for you to lie down before you fall down. We'll have to leave you unsupervised for a while, but I'll make sure you have everything you could need before we leave.”

Mister Jarvis swayed and reconsidered his decision to accompany them. “Perhaps I have overestimated my ability to throw a punch at present. Make sure you punch them a few times for me, Director Holcomb. Right in the nose.”

“You got it, Mister Jarvis.”

“What? I can't throw a punch?” Howard demanded with a noted pout in his tone.

“It'll hurt more if I throw it,” she answered. 

***

The door to Delwyn's flat, though surprisingly stout, caved just the same when subjected to a small explosive munition that destroyed the handle and locking mechanism. Hands were removed from off ears, and she palmed her sidearm. A solid kick near the ruined handle assembly sent the door hurtling inward to bang against the wall and cleared the path to step inside with firearm at the ready to lay down cover fire for Howard. One step sideways once clear of the door opened her companion's pathway inside. He brandished an automatic rifle.

A half dozen people gathered there, their heads covered by burlap sacks and the hoods of green pellegrinas, erupted in panic and scattered to take cover. They abandoned their leader, Grigor Delwyn, who stood dead center inside a circle made of willow branches wearing a wizard's cloak. Because apparently the universe had decided she was missing out on something awesome by ignoring the resurgent J. R. R. Tolkien craze.

She had no qualms about putting a bullet into his drywall, the projectile hurtling centimeters away from his face as it whizzed past him, when he glanced toward the gun sitting on a desk. “Don't you bloody do it. I will fill you so full of lead you'll bring new meaning to the term 'pencil dick.'”

“Don't shoot! This is a peaceful ceremony,” Delwyn exclaimed.

While she had the prick pinned down through the sight of her firearm, Howard kept an eye on Prick Juniors, who were presently hovering behind the sofa for cover. He snatched the weapon off Delwyn's desk, engaged the safety, and tucked it into the waistband of his trousers. “Where is she?”

“I don't know--”

“Where is she?!” Stark shouted this time.

“You have about ten seconds to start talking before I begin putting bullets into you one at a time, starting at your feet and working my way up until something vital is perforated,” Gwen said. “One...”

Delwyn's body language tensed, posture going rigid and hands rising into a position over his head. “You cannot be here. This is a sacred ceremony, and your evil is unwelcome.”

“That is so not the right answer,” Howard grumbled only to raise his voice again. His vocal cords crackled over the following words. “You took someone precious from us. If I don't get real answers as to her location and condition, I will leave the post out of the mortem and jump straight to vivisection.”

“Eight, nine...”

The door of an adjoining room opened, eliciting a hush from the murmuring acolytes and admitting a woman who carried herself with the bearing of a queen. Tall and svelte, she glided across the hardwoods in naked feet that hardly seemed to touch the floor, delicate fingers settling on the barrel of Howard's rifle and adjusting it downward. A halo of light ringed her head, but Gwen quickly realized it was caused by the way overhead lights reflected on the woman's glossy curls rather than any outer manifestation of inward power.

Oddly, the beauty then turned green eyes in her direction as though considering whether powers of female seduction would be at all effective on someone of the same sex. They were. Gwen found the barrel of her own gun drooping and could hardly keep her eyes above the swath of cleavage revealed by a form-fitting robe that appeared made of living moss. Nearly a foot of the robe's train dragged the floor when the vixen floated toward her.

“Cease your worrying, Sir Delwyn. These are not members of the Seven Veils. They have come on behalf of the Awakener.”

Gwen jerked her attention up from the swath of creamy skin that reminded her of the foam topping on an expensive cappuccino in Italy. If the woman's skin was like cappuccino froth, then the smattering of freckles dusting said chest was cinnamon. Her tongue moistened her lips as she experienced the phantom taste of cinnamon and found herself salivating. For fuck's sake, what was she doing?

“Madam, I don't know what psychotic fantasy we stumbled into, but we are not leaving this flat without Agent Carter. No amount of seductive pheromones will prevent me from peeling flesh from bone if you attempt to stand in our way.”

“Gwen, just calm down. I'm sure there's a logical explanation. Give her the opportunity to tell their side of the story— What the Hell am I saying?” Howard sounded appalled with himself. “Agent Carter. Where is she?”

The woman chuckled, her voice the sound of Christmas bells dancing on a gentle breeze during a snowy evening spent.... Gwen ground her stream of consciousness to a halt and refocused the muzzle of her gun toward Tinker Bell. “Start talking or I start peeling.”

“My brave soldiers. You have such a hard time communicating in anything but threats. Do you truly believe such threats will loosen a reluctant tongue? I believe you humans have a particular phrase that illustrates the point succinctly.” She snapped her fingers. “What is the story about flies and vinegar?”

“You catch more flies with honey than vinegar, sovereign lady,” Grigor supplied.

“Just a moment. Why are you referring to us as humans, sovereign la—sneaky cunt?” Howard asked, stopping himself mid-word to correct what he'd been about to call her.

“Keep a civil tongue in your head, Sir. You are in the presence of Mother Olwen Carys.”

“She could be Mother Theresa, and that still wouldn't save her from my wrath,” Gwen said. However, her attention was certainly peaked. After all the crowing Howel had engaged in with regards to this woman, she was beginning to understand his obsession.

“Clearly, you don't understand the significance of who you're addressing. She is—”

Olwen's hand cut through the air to silence Delwyn. “Who I am doesn't matter at present. What matters is that the Seven Veils have taken Agent Carter. For good or ill, we must work together, S.H.I.E.L.D and the Cult of the Head, to stop her from being sacrificed.”

“Sacrificed?!” Contemplation concerning whether or not Olwen's pubic hair also glowed stopped abruptly, and she considered refocusing Delwyn in the cross-hairs of her sidearm.

“Tell us everything you know about her location and its defenses,” instructed Howard, who seemed content to have lowered his weapon into resting position.

Keeping her attention on the words coming out of the woman's mouth and maintaining higher brain function continued being a struggle for the duration of their visit. Every now and then, she found her eyes wandering to take in the lush figure, and that elicited a host of guilty feelings. Despite her bisexuality, how could she ever countenance checking out another woman while the woman she loved was being held captive and threatened with sacrifice? Also? It smacked of the Winter Soldier all over again. What was her problem with regards to being sexually attracted to the enemy?

Mother Carys' testimony clarified that they were dealing with two different pan-Gaelic sects. The Cult of the Head was interested in worshiping deities and mythological figures known as the Tuatha de Danann. Their job, according to Olwen and Grigor, was the protection of Gaelic wisdom throughout the British isles with only one aspect of that being the belief that the soul resides in the head. Given that she had just exhumed a Norse deity from West Berlin, she was willing to entertain the notion that Celtic deities may also have been grounded in some basis of truth.

The group responsible for Peggy's abduction was known as the Sisters of the Seven Veils. Their loyalty was to a figure called Balor. His name was followed by a plethora of chatter regarding Fomorians and an ancient war between them and the Tuatha de with Balor being defeated by their champion. It all boiled down to Balor having three eyes. Powers of destruction contained within his third eye were held in check by seven veils. As each veil was removed, a new power emerged. 

Of course, it was all leading up to the cleansing of the world so the Fomorians could rise to the heights of their former power. Basically, same story as every other super-villain but told on a different day of the week. She wondered when someone would send out a memo to the villain community suggesting they come up with a different motivation for unleashing their idiocy.

“Where does Peggy's sacrifice enter the play?” Howard asked. He glanced down at the cup of tea in his hand and seemed surprised to find it there and already half-consumed.

“Each veil has a different counterweight. Releasing the counterweight pulls back the curtain. Your Agent Carter is in the unfortunate situation of having become the counterweight for the seventh veil. I cannot say for certain when this took place, but I noticed the peculiar scent of pheromones radiating from your home. Given the danger Balor poses, I deemed it suitable collateral damage to have my acolytes kill Agent Carter before the Seven Veils noticed her presence and took her into custody.”

If it weren't for Howard's grip suddenly engaging on her wrist, Gwen would have grabbed her gun again and made Mother Carys eat a bullet at point blank range. “You sent them? Our friend was nearly killed by one of your attackers, you silly wanker!”

“The cleansing of the world and the death of nearly all mortal life on this planet versus the death of one woman? I don't expect you to like my decision. In fact, I expect you would have fought us to the bitter end. It's only natural to defend the people you love, but none of that matters anymore.”

Gentle pressure on her wrist drew her gaze down to find Stark grazing his thumb across the underside. The touch startled her with its tenderness and caused her to dart her glance over toward him. Creases at the corners of his eyes reminded her of his advancing years. Early forties wasn't ancient by any stretch, but he aged while she remained frozen in the same body for who knew how long.

Gwen covered his hand with her own before saying, “You're right. The only things that matter now are stopping the Seven Veils and getting Peggy back safely. What are we up against? How do we track them? Can we get a location on where they might be holding her?”

“Also, I wonder what causes the pheromones you spoke of. Is Peggy being a counterweight to one of the veils something that was preordained? Was she simply unlucky enough to have been born with a certain body chemistry? Or is there some connection to our last mission.”

“Only those who have been exposed to a certain root extract my people refer to as the Horns of Cernunnos are acceptable counterweights. Normally, this compound is extraordinarily rare. A mortal wouldn't be exposed in every day life, and one must inhale a large quantity...”

Howard interrupted with a gesture and waited for her to stop speaking. Stark and manners were like oil and water, Jesus and Satan, or Bloody Mary and Protestantism. The fact he showed deference to Olwen was a testament to her powers of persuasion. “I have some samples back at my home you should look at, samples of Peggy's blood.”

Oh, so they were taking the seduction pheromone bomb home now? She leveled an irritated glance on her lover that was completely ignored in favor of him locking gazes with Aphrodite. Whilst she didn't really have any room to be jealous after her liaison with the Winter Soldier, it still smacked very much of being left behind. Olwen was everything that Gwen was not: Graceful, willowy, elegant, and possessing the manners that would fit into Howard's social status. Would there be any room left for her when her male lover realized Olwen was her better?

 

**Daily Notes: Today went all pear shaped. There really isn't much to say. Peggy was abducted and is in mortal danger. Fairly certain if this isn't fixed soon and my lovers safe again, I will end up doing something drastic that involves finding the nearest bad guy and hopping on his cock. Sarcasm is so hard to get across in writing. Also, Nick Fury will want to boil our heads when he finds out we disobeyed him.**


	10. 16 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shit goes down as Team Good Guys raid The Seven Veils safe house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: This chapter contains pretty graphic violence.

**16 January, 1962**

Nick expected a quiet trip to the bunker to shower and change in between Gabe's surgery and the moment he recovered from the anesthesia. He wanted to be there when the man roused. Having a friendly face nearby could only help to ease his comrade's mind, but by that point, it had become a unit tradition. You got your ass handed to you while serving with the Howling Commandos? Nick Fury's less-than-grinning-face would be there when you woke up. 

He still remembered that last mission before Dugan had retired, the mad scramble into the MASH unit where Captain Cadwallader had been transported, Fury still covered in Viet Cong blood, to find his second in command barely clinging to life while surgeons removed a bucket of shrapnel from his gut. The damage had been so bad a bowel resection had been necessary to avoid fecal matter leaking into his gut. It had knocked him out of commission and had quickly been followed by the announcement of his official retirement from the Howling Commandos.

Now Gabe.

A muscle in his jaw worked, and he finally jammed the key into the lock. The sound of rhythmic murmuring from inside prompted him to remove his sidearm. It was held at the ready while he crept his way downstairs. The fear was that the enemy had returned for Mister Jarvis, leaving Stark and Holcomb vulnerable to their attack. That was not what greeted him when he made it down the stairs.

Ten Cult of the Head acolytes rimmed a circle of braided willow branches, their bare toes barely touching the wood. Inside said circle was Grigor Delwyn. He was seated Indian style and hunched over a copper bowl filled with water. Steps away, tBMB and tSoGI argued heatedly with a blonde woman wearing a green robe. The deep V of the garment exposed a large swath of chest and cleavage that made him look three times before tearing his attention away from her.

In short, there were motherfucking wizards in his motherfucking bunker.

He was prepared to start demanding answers (read “the motherfuckers better talk fast and factually before he shoved his boot up their asses”) when the water filling the copper bowl undulated despite Delwyn's hands being rock solid. Clearly, the bastard wasn't moving the bowl to produce the effect, but that didn't stop ripples from roiling across the surface. Chanting reached a crescendo. Each acolyte rang a bell once before passing it to their neighbor to ring.

“You two!” He jabbed his finger toward his supposed allies (read “the motherfucking traitors who'd clearly traitored”). “You have ten seconds to explain why the Hell there is a wizard conclave going on inside my safe house before I start shooting.”

“There is no reason to fear, Colonel Fury,” the blonde said. Her voice was unreasonably pleasant. “We are here by invitation from Director Holcomb and Mister Stark.”

“Is that right?” His gaze lowered toward her cleavage again, and he found himself leaning forward as though he would tip head-first into her tits. Shaking his head cleared the foggy thoughts encroaching on his more reasonable mind. “Holcomb, Stark, start filling the silence with words.”

The pair quickly brought him up to speed with the information they'd gleaned from the wizard conclave, or at least with the information said conclave was willing to share. Nothing guaranteed they were telling the truth. Nothing said their intelligence could be trusted.

Anger tightened his chest. The stress of the past two weeks turned his response more caustic than anticipated. “What you're saying is that you deliberately went against my instructions and invaded the Eldorado. Ladies and gentlemen, my allies. Eager to accept the safety of my secret location, quick to use my contacts, willing to eat my food and drink my water, but unwilling to shoulder the responsibility of being equal partners in an alliance.”

Stark's shoulders stooped. He had the good grace to look mildly ashamed of himself. Holcomb, on the other hand, shrugged and didn't offer comment.

Olwen attempted to interject herself into the tension, her slim body brushing against him while she changed positions to place herself between his allies (read “the motherfuckers formerly known as allies”) and him. Slim fingertips danced up his chest and tucked beneath his chin, and for a moment, Fury thought he would have a hard time staying focused on his surroundings. But when he realized he was unreasonably attracted by her, he gave his head another shake and stepped back.

“Lady, I've half a mind to throw you off the tallest skyscraper if you don't back up out of my personal space and explain to me just what the Hell is going on here.”

TSoGI and tBMB stiffened, posturing themselves as though readying for combat. They even moved toward Olwen to protect her. Clearly, those two were in the grips of whatever seductive pheromones the bitch produced. Why was he the only one aware of how dangerous the situation was when their supposed intelligence was coming from someone who could seduce them? In short, tBMB and tSoGI had been compromised and were no longer in control of the mission.

“We are not your enemy,” Olwen said.

“You damn sure aren't my friend.” But he thought, if he played the game with enough subtlety, he could use the information against her in determining what was going on.

“Colonel—” Stark began only to be cut off by Delwyn.

“We have the fifth location, Sovereign Lady. The Seven Veils have taken refuge inside an abandoned farmhouse in upstate New York. They will perform the ritual just before dawn to lift the fifth veil.”

tBMB became much more animated and moved closer to Delwyn. An acolyte prevented her from stepping across the willow braid with a quick explanation that her unclean presence inside would dispel the ritualistic magic. She contented herself with watching from the outside. “We can make that before morning if we move like Einstein tearing ass away from a barber.”

Because apparently magic existed (read “fuck his motherfucking life”).

The main room of his safe house broke out into a chaotic jumble of action as acolytes broke down their magical (read “fuck his motherfucking life”) circle and Delwyn lurched to his feet without spilling a single drop of water from his magical (read “fuck his motherfucking life” again) seeing cup. One moment, Olwen was garbed in her ultra-revealing robe. The next time she came into his line of sight, she was wearing something much more appropriate: a pair of dark jeans and a sweater. More magic (read...you know the record stuck in its groove by now).

“Whoa! You are not going with us,” Nick exclaimed when she appeared to be gathering her acolytes near the doorway to slip out with them. Hell, he wasn't even sure he was going on a rollicking adventure based upon compromised intelligence from the Moss Bitch Distillery (or tMBD for short).

“We must be there, Colonel Fury,” she responded in her unusually pleasant voice. “Someone must dispel the magic of the Seven Veils and free the sacrifice from their circle. The guiding principle of our faith is the Rule of Three. What energy you put into the world, be it positive or negative, will be returned to you threefold.”

“In conjunction with the Rule of Equals,” Delwyn continued, “which means that what you take from someone must be returned in equal measures, this means by stopping the ritual without dispelling their magics, you are effectively taking Balor's sight and would be required to return something of equal value. The Christian tenet of 'an eye for an eye' was one of numerous pagan teachings they appropriated to make their religion more palatable to the average pagan. Saint Bridget of Ireland is an example of Catholics using a pagan symbol...”

“I get it!” Nick exclaimed. “Interruptee no goodee or you lose an eye-ee!” The distinct desire for someone to get a gun and shoot him in the head became pressing for a few seconds. He took a deep breath and blew it out slowly before turning to pin his not-allies with a heated glance. “You two? Big trouble! Wait here for me. I have to make a call, and we need more transportation than your Impala.”

He moved into his office and calmly closed the door. As soon as he was closeted away from the flock of Gandalfs clucking their way around his barnyard, he exploded into melodramatic theatrics expressing his extreme level of frustration and anger. The tantrum stopped short of actively throwing anything across the room that would have resulted in a loud bang which would have brought the nosy bastards and his not-allies running to discover if something catastrophic had happened.

Once that was out of his system, he got on the horn with Izzy Cohen to arrange for the Howling Commandos to prep for a mission. They were to collect Falsworth and Dernier from the Eldorado and follow at a distance using the small tracking bug he'd planted in Stark's car eons ago when they'd first begun staking out the building on 145th Street. That was back when S.H.I.E.L.D had still been his allies as opposed to the tMTWT (short for the Motherfucking Traitors Who'd Traitored).

***

 

“Are you planning on engaging in this childish display of the Silent Treatment much longer, Colonel, or should we take your silence as permission to exclude you from a quick brainstorming session?”

The silence from the back seat was deafening.

She honestly didn't see what the big deal was. They'd infiltrated the Eldorado without him, but it wasn't like the mission had gone poorly. New allies had come on board with much-needed intelligence. How could that possibly be a bad thing when they were now working under time constraints for getting Peggy back from the Seven Veils?

Sherry red locks were pulled back into a pony tail while Howard hurtled them down a country road in the middle of upstate New York. Empty fields lying fallow for the winter and cows had become repetitive sights since entering a region dominated by snow-covered open spaces occasionally dotted by farm houses buttoned up tightly against the winter winds. Car headlights provided the only light sources in such a backwater region. It was easy to forget how dark the night could be when surrounded by street lamps and the illumination pouring from building windows.

Roads were only marginally passable from a recent snow storm, but Howard wasn't having any difficulty maintaining traction. The pair of vans behind them lost traction once in a while and were forced to hastily correct to avoid going off the side of the road. Progress was slower than anticipated. She was beginning to worry they might not arrive in time and took to chewing the end of her thumb.

“That's disgusting, Gwen,” Howard groused. “Do you require a type of shock collar so I can deliver a jolt every time I catch you sucking your thumb? Would that help you to break the terrible habit?”

Two things were gleaned from his comment. First, hearing that he found her disgusting made her sink lower in the passenger seat like a scolded puppy who'd made a mess on the carpet. Second, dropping the formalities by using her given name while scolding her in front of the colonel was surely his way of reinforcing their hierarchy. The use of a given name in this context very much placed her in the subordinate position. She quickly jerked the offending digit away from her mouth.

“Could you possibly be any more abusive, Stark?” Fury finally asked from the back seat. “In our brief association, I've heard you disparage her intelligence and insinuate her manners are little better than a dock worker. You need to knock that shit off.”

Howard didn't comment.

Startled by the colonel coming to her defense, she turned enough to look at him. Coming right out and thanking him would support the notion Howard was somehow in the wrong. He'd saved her life. She owed him so much that he could never be in the wrong.

Instead, she said, “So you're speaking to us again? I don't know whether to treat this breakthrough with all the reverence of a holy relic or to tell you how childish you were being.”

“This from the woman who suggested sending dick pictures to the pope. Her definition of reverence is incredibly skewed, Colonel, so don't suggest she lean in that direction.”

“Did you think I was being arbitrary in asking you to wait until my return from the hospital? There was a good reason behind my request, but you didn't consider the why of it before zooming out from under our alliance and handling matters your way. We aren't friends. We aren't leaders and subordinates. We're allies, and allies are supposed to respect each other.”

“You can hardly be that angry when the results have been something close to a breakthrough. We now have real hope of finding Agent Carter and bringing her home. We certainly have new allies to help us in the fight against the Seven Veils.”

“Questionable intelligence from questionable informants!” he shouted. “We have no way of vetting their information, which means we are proceeding into a highly dangerous situation based upon the words of people who could be playing us.”

“Olwen wouldn't—” Howard's comment was interrupted by Fury.

“Carys is a mutant with powers of persuasion. Both of you have fallen so deeply under her seduction you would throw yourselves in front of a bus to protect her. You're compromised. Saving Carter is my only goal in going along with this bullshit. The two of you can go hang yourselves for all I care.”

“We aren't compromised,” Gwen reassured.

“Bullshit.”

“Why are you so angry, Colonel? Even if we are functionally compromised, you are still being given the opportunity to complete your goal. Agent Carter might be at this location tonight.”

“Because I was starting to trust you, Goddamn it.”

A beat of silence filled the vehicle's interior while she soaked up that admission. Given their previous conversation about trust she understood how difficult that admission was for the colonel. They had been winning him over, and while he'd been in hospital with Sergeant Jones, they had seized the first opportunity to, as he'd so eloquently put it, zoom out from under their alliance.

Regret sparked in her conscience until she remembered the whole Flick Five situation. “Let's not climb onto our soapbox, Colonel, and exclaim our righteous indignation. You hardly have room to talk when you sold me into a working relationship with the newly appointed chairman of the KGB. I trusted Flick Five because he came part and parcel with your name and reputation.”

Silence.

“We didn't like that comparison, did we.”

“I didn't betray you. I merely fed you correct information from a tainted source you wouldn't otherwise have accepted had you known who had generated the intelligence. There is a difference.”

“Perhaps a subtle one,” Howard said.

“The point is I had men stationed at the Eldorado with listening devices in place that would have bagged us objective intelligence. The moment you stormed that apartment, you gave them the opportunity to feed you false information, to manipulate you. Now you're compromised by Carys' powers of persuasion, and we're forced to go on subjective intelligence.”

Another beat of silence passed wile Gwen digested what he'd just said.

Howard broke the tension first by saying, “I'm sorry, Nick.” Stark apologizing was as rare as a solar eclipse, so the very fact that those words made it past his lips was an indication of how much he respected Fury and wanted to maintain the relationship.

***

Sub-zero temperatures ate through Gwen's boots and thick socks, making her limbs feel leaden while jogging across an open space separating them from the farmhouse Delwyn had indicated contained the Sisters of the Seven Veils. She placed herself and the three acolytes she was leading, having been assured all the men accompanying them possessed advanced training in the martial arts, into position behind a shed. Peeking around the corner and shouldering her rifle to peer down the sniperscope allowed her to view inside the large bay window at the front of the house.

“Visual confirmation of three hostiles in the living room to the north of the house,” she said into her communication device. “All male. No visual confirmation of Carter.”

Stark and Fury responded from their designated zones, Stark at the rear of the building to the south and Fury to the east in position within the shadow of the barn. They visually confirmed eight other people milling around inside but could find no evidence of Agent Carter. That wasn't entirely a surprise. She was likely on the floor or in a bed and wouldn't be in their sight line.

Fury's warning that Mother Carys had compromised them with her mutant power wasn't far from her mind when she glanced back at the men waiting behind her. Believing their intentions were truthful without any sort of vetting process had been pure idiocy, an idiocy she was paying for now by going into battle with untested acolytes who might stab her in the back at the earliest opportunity.

It surely said nothing good about her mental state when she was willing to trust an unknown bird with a great rack over a decorated war hero who had given them shelter at the simple asking. Apparently she had the attention span of a gnat and was easily distracted by semi-exposed tits. How utterly vapid could she possibly be?

“Call it, Director Holcomb,” Fury said.

“Mister Stark?” A horrific sense of uncertainty and anxiety tightened her chest.

“Give the order, Gwen. Walking into an ambush and nearly getting our heads blown off is preferable to standing out here in the cold freezing our nuts off.”

Stark using her given name again made her cringe. Maybe she was making a mountain of a molehill. Maybe she wouldn't have reacted so strongly if she hadn't realized how crass she was in comparison to Carys. Maybe she was just reacting to the presence of a superior female, but it bothered her. It was another example of him reinforcing their hierarchy and placing her in the subordinate position.

“Gwen?” he prompted.

She shook herself free of the growing sliver of uncertainty and said, “This is an official proceed order.”

Moving in snow up to her shins slowed their progress when she finally skulked from behind the shed to cross the expanse separating Team Por Larrañaga from the farm house. When they were tucked into position, she glanced down at her watch to check mission time. Radio silence was in effect, so calling for a check of their progress and position readiness wasn't happening.

When the hand ticked down to precisely four ten in the morning—they had allowed ample time for each team to get into position, Team Optimo taking the longest to attain position readiness—she shot the pane of glass to weaken the window and then dove through. The glass shattered from her body weight, leaving the path open for her companions to safely follow her in.

Enemy combatants were taken off guard. While they scrambled for their weaponry, she put a bullet in one man's kneecap. Another gathered his scattered wits enough to rush her from the side, forcing her to intercept him with the forend of her rifle. She spun around his body, looped her rifle around his throat like a choke bar, and turned him to have a shield with which to intercept enemy gunfire. 

More goons poured in from the basement.

She threw aside her unwilling shield once he'd fulfilled his purpose and was startled when the three acolytes accompanying her intercepted the new arrivals. Their line effectively took the heat off her. It also tempted her to stand around with her thumb shoved up her ass, as she wasn't used to being protected in combat. Dimitry Vetrov knew better when they were partnered together.

“Find the offering,” a blonde acolyte said.

Breaking away from them, she darted through a door across the room. At some point while working her way through the house, she merged with Team Gispert, led by Howard and who had been in charge of finding the sacrificial victims. She was just intercepting him and his acolytes when Nick Fury burst through a wall and sprawled on the floor at their feet.

***

“I'm getting too damn old for this,” Nick grumbled while picking himself up out of the debris he'd created by being flung through the wall into the kitchen. Turned out he was full seconds slower than the enemies pursuing him, as he was facing a raised gun barrel when he made it back to his feet.

Honestly? He didn't know what hit him until the eruption of movement stilled. One second, he was facing certain death and staring down the barrel of a Walther PP. The next second, something impacted against his side, and he found himself looking up from the floor while Gwen fired a single round into the shooter's face. The shock of the whole thing (read “he nearly motherfucking pissed himself”) meant he didn't realize tSoGI was the one who'd shoved him free of the shot until locating him standing between the now-deceased shooter and them.

“What the Hell did you do that for, Stark?” he demanded while shoving back to his feet. He continued when no answer was forthcoming. “What? Paying me back for the silent treatment I gave you on the way here. Jesus-jumped-up-Christ, can we all act like adults?”

It wasn't until Stark turned toward him that Nick saw the growing blood stain on the man's shoulder. Panic caused his heart to jump into his throat, and he scrambled across the distance separating them to catch Howard when he sank toward the floor. “Gwen, we need pressure on this wound!”

Holcomb kept her cool. She went from horrified to collected in a scant amount of time as her psyche jumped into the realm of “act now, think later.” She took down two more goons with successive shots before unzipping her coat. It was tossed to him when free of her body.

“Jam that against the wound and keep pressure applied.”

“They shot me.” The disbelief in Howard's voice would have been comical under normal circumstances. “They actually shot me. Why did I do that? Your ass had better be worth it.” His eyes widened when he realized what the jacket was for. “Don't clamp that against me without booze or pain killers—” His griping ended with a yelp when Fury jammed the cloth against the man's shoulder.

Olwen dashed through the hole Nick's body had left behind once the path was clear, the ever-present Delwyn close behind her. All that was required to get her lackey to move was sweeping a hand toward Howard, the action causing her man to drop down beside the injured Stark and take over pressing the wad of cloth against his wound. “My man has him. The three of us must find the sacrificial victim and dissolve the spell before it's completed. We have not yet lost the night.”

“So we're just supposed to leave him here, no cover, no one to prevent them from being attacked, no guarantee you aren't all secretly working for the Seven Veils and will use the opportunity to smother him while he's in a weakened position?” Nick asked.

“I wish I didn't know you right now,” Howard said, but his efforts to wiggle free of the source of pain proved useless. “Just go. Take Gwen and Olwen. You have to find Agent Carter. Finding her is what's important. Ugh. I can't believe I got shot for you.”

“What are you talking about? I'm worth all the diamonds in your vault, Stark.” He glanced toward Gwen, who nodded her permission. Shoving to his feet, he grabbed his gun and left tSoGI with MG (read “motherfucking Gandalf”) to approach the basement stairs.

He almost protested when Holcomb brushed past him to lead the way into the belly of the beast (read “the motherfucking second circle of Hell or tSCoH for short”) but stilled the instinct. Given that he stood a couple of inches taller, he could better fire over her shoulder than the reverse scenario which would involve her hiding behind him for bodily protection. Protecting Gwen Holcomb would likely land him on her Naughty List.

“Remember, do not enter the willow circle until I tell you it's safe,” warned Olwen, who brought up the rear of the newly formed Team I Can't Believe It's Not Bullshit.

Howard Stark had saved his life (read “Howard Stark had saved his motherfucking life”).

The shock of that would have to be examined later, as they walked in on a half dozen women surrounding a circle of braided willow branches. A man-sized bronze statue was situated at the head of the circle, denoted by two green stones as big around as Nick's fists meeting like the ends of a torc. The statue depicted an older man. Curled ram horns arched backward from his forehead and framed a third eye located in the center of his forehead. Light emanated from said eye and somehow levitated a sacrificial victim off the floor.

A dozen men were crammed into the basement with the priestesses. They were immediately aware of the interruption and formed a line between the intruders and their sisters, effectively cutting them off from reaching their target (read “they were rafting up shit's creek with a toothpick as a paddle”). Countering that many hostiles in time to stop the priestesses seemed impossible.

Gwen raised her rifle into position and started shooting people.

Nick was slightly disturbed by how quickly she arrived at “kill all the people,” blasting right past “attempt to disable all the people and take them into custody.” But once she started firing, it was almost muscle memory that squeezed his finger around the trigger of his own weapon. Yeah, blame it on tBMB for the sudden desertion of his moral character's normal response of arresting if at all possible. Desperate times and all that.

They just couldn't end the confrontation fast enough. Sometimes plans worked. Sometimes they failed spectacularly. Then there were the times when things aligned in such a way they couldn't respond in enough time to prevent catastrophe. It was one of those unfortunate incidences.

A woman garbed in an opaque red veil plunged a knife down into the left eye of a dark-haired woman arranged inside the willow branch circle. The victim's body twitched as muscles involuntarily fired in protest, but nobody was living through having a knife embedded in their brain. What was more disturbing was the sound Gwen made in response.

***

The only identifier of the victim in her field of vision was dark hair. Peggy had dark hair. Horror spread through her limbs and turned her into a cold blooded killing machine. Her rifle was tossed aside in favor of retrieving a long-bladed combat knife from off her hip that was employed in tearing through the Seven Veils menfolk. The blood splattering her face, evidence of the lives sacrificed at the altar of her need for vengeance, made her look a wild, bloodthirsty thing.

Some half-rational part of her mind took comfort from knowing Howard and Peggy had gone out at the same time. It was cruel to ask one to linger if the other died. The notion was rejected, though, as a horrific possibility. How could she survive if she lost them both on the same day? How could she survive when they were both moral compass and emotional grounding rod?

Lips pulled back from her teeth in a snarl when she finally laid hands upon the dirty puzzle who'd sacrificed Peggy. The veil was ripped from the woman's head while Gwen sank her fingers into the enemy's snow white hair. Said veil slipped to the ground in a whisper and allowed her to clap eyes on an elderly woman whose own eyes had long since gone milky with cataracts.

“He will consume you, and everything will burn,” the old woman rasped.

“I already buried one grizzled old bastard in the snow and ice, cunt-waffle. One more won't be too much trouble, so you tell Balor when I send you for a personal face to face to bend over because Frosty the Snowman is about to present cock to ass.”

Maybe it was a sign of her twisted insides. Maybe it was a side effect of having grown up amidst the corruption and depravity of the British workhouse system in a sea of orphans. Whatever the reason, she didn't hesitate to send the old bat to meet her maker. The edge of her knife was to the woman's throat as Moses's staff was to the Red Sea, and she held onto the elderly body struggling through the final stages of death until muscles stopped firing and heart stopped beating.

Only then did she allow the old woman to sink to the floor where she gazed down at the growing red stain spreading around the corpse. The fascination of it rooted her to the spot. Dread caused by the idea of finding out whether or not she needed to turn the blade on herself prevented her from looking at the hapless victim who'd been sacrificed to Balor.

“Jesus Christ, Holcomb.”

Fury's voice caused her senses to throb and barely penetrated the red blanketing her conscious mind.

“She was an old woman! Why the fuck did you do that?”

Silence.

“Holy shit. Holy motherfucking shit.”

The tips of Fury's combat boots kissed the old woman's blood when he toed the pool surrounding her.

“Okay, Director Holcomb, I need you to snap out of it. I know you're scared. I know you've seen things and been through things that are absolutely horrifying, but I need you functioning right now.”

“She killed Peggy,” she finally whispered.

“No, she didn't. Look at me.”

She couldn't bring herself to look away from the white hair quickly turning various shades of red from sopping up blood. Fury grabbed her shoulders and shook her back to awareness.

“She didn't kill Peggy. Director, look for yourself. I promise you that's not Peggy Carter.”

Finally, she turned. Dread slowed her motions to a crawl, but she turned and glanced down at the body stretched out inside the willow circle. It wasn't Peggy. Knees betrayed her, and she sagged against Nick's chest and would be grateful later for him reacting quickly enough to prevent her from falling.

“It's not her,” she gasped. That fact bore repeating. “It's not her.”

“It's not,” Nick confirmed while winding his arms around her.

That startled her. Colonel Fury was holding her as though comforting a small child. She'd never experienced that before, the offer of comfort that didn't come as a precursor to sex. The strange sensation ate away at her resolve to remain emotionally aloof, and she found herself resting her cheek against the broad expanse of his shoulder. Just a few seconds, she told herself.

Being so close to the sacrificial victim allowed her the opportunity to look at the arrangement in more detail. The branches were woven together, but they were also held in place with a series of rope knots ringing the circumference of the circle. Eleven were yellow. Thirty were red. Two were plain. The body itself rested on a mat made of woven textiles that contained another knot. Just one, and that struck her as odd. Surely it meant something. She would bring it up with Howard later.

“Do you have to do anything in here, Carys?” Fury asked.

“No, we're too late. My magics can't stop what's about to happen. The veil is lifting already.”

“Director, I need you to focus now, okay? We have to get everyone out. That bronze looks to be heating rapidly. Can you feel the concrete beneath our feet warming? That thing is putting off increasing intensity, and we have no idea how hot it will actually get.”

Transfixed, she could hardly tear herself away from the emptiness following in the wake of her emotional upheaval. She stiffened upon glancing over. The statue's central eye was white hot while the face itself was glowing red from whatever process had been started by the sacrifice. Heat haze, like the shimmer produced from the sun beating down on asphalt, wreathed Balor.

The temperature increase produced beads of perspiration on their skin and seemed to be heading toward a crescendo. Her lungs burned from inhaling scalding air, and movement caused the soles of her boots to cling against the heated concrete, a signal they were beginning to melt to the floor.

Nodding to signify she was properly seated back in her own control again, she grabbed his hand and bailed toward the basement stairs. They, along with Olwen, raced up onto the ground floor while shouting a fall back order to inspire people to get their asses in gear. Floorboards had warped by that point from heat exposure, and paint was beginning to bubble and blister.

Gwen broke away to return to the kitchen where she'd left Howard in Delwyn's care. Leaving without him wasn't an option; she would rather die. It was a relief seeing him already on his feet and the pair moving out the rear door into the snow with his caretaker's arm around his waist for support.

Following them out wasn't good enough. Snow had already melted and was continuing to do so in an ever-expanding perfect circle surrounding the farmhouse. Mist caused by super-heated ground meeting sub-zero air and wind currents created an eerie sight indeed.

“Don't stop here! We don't know how big the radius will be,” she commanded while whirling around to spot their position and locate where they were in relation to their extraction vehicles. 

Quick reflexes prevented her from running smack dab into one of a dozen men standing outside with rifles and guarding vans with their engines already running. Each man wore a pewter uniform with lighter gray accents and possessed the insignia of the howling wolf's head on their collars. She was ninety percent sure the Howling Commandos had just saved their asses.

By the time they were loaded up and moving away from the property, visibility had deteriorated from all the fog packing the area thick as peanut butter. The barren circle surrounding the structure had increased to a half mile out, and she turned to look back at the farmhouse just as it was catching fire. Flames quickly consumed the barn, and she could just see the Impala's tires melting into the ground.

“I liked that car,” Howard said from his position next to her.

“Ding dong, the bitch is dead!” Nick crowed in response to its death when the barn combusted.

Gwen offered no comment. The tightness inside her chest and stomach made focusing on her surroundings impossible. All she could think about, the only thing she could process, was how much of a disaster the mission had been. Howard had been shot on her watch. She'd thought Peggy had been sacrificed. They'd failed to take prisoners for questioning, and the Seven Veils had succeeded in lifting another veil from Balor's eye, all because her level of intelligence and sophistication weren't up to par.

None of it would have happened had Peggy been in charge. Or Colonel Fury. Even Howard could have done better. Her throat closed. She couldn't breathe. Her heart seized in her chest. That was why she couldn't breathe. Her heart was so tight and high it blocked her wind pipe. The whole world closed in on her like a boa constrictor tightening its coils.

She needed Yakov.

Replaying that night when she'd gotten Agent Baro killed, that night when Yakov had bent her over a rusty conveyor machine and had shoved his fingers into her gunshot wounds while hammering into her, brought just enough cathartic release that she avoided exploding on the other occupants of the vehicle. But it didn't help enough. And it didn't last long.

Yakov's absence meant she had to find a replacement and fast. Surely any number of violent men existed in New York City who could do the job equally well, so she used the long drive back to map out a plan of action. A helpless woman dressed well with a tempting purse to snatch wandering, lost and alone, down a darkened alley in the seediest neighborhood would prove an irresistible target. Someone would take advantage of her and give her what she deserved.

 

**Daily Notes: Tonight was horrific. I thought I had left these feelings back in Russia, but I was wrong. How could I leave this behind? It's what I deserve for being such a sick cunt. Fuck, I need help.**


	11. 18 January, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury has a heart to heart with Gwen, and we finally learn some of her backstory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Mentions of off-screen sexual assault and violence.

**18 January, 1962**

“Jesus, who do I need to kill?” Concern and anger coated Fury's voice in equal measures.

Startled by the man's sudden presence in the safe house's communal shower, Gwen dropped the bottle of shampoo, causing a clatter that made her injured ear throb. She cringed. Sudden movement prompted a bout of vertigo that required she brace herself against pale blue subway tiles. Between the ruptured eardrum and the bruises littering her body from her successful foray to self-harm, she could understand how he leaped to that conclusion.

She didn't dare shake her head to respond non-verbally, though. “No one, and if you were a gentleman, you would step out until I've finished.”

“Bullshit. Look at you. What the Hell happened, and how many do I need to kill?”

“It's not what you think.”

“How can it be anything but what I think? Look at you!”

Her glance traveled down the length of her body. It was so much worse than when she'd manipulated Yakov into getting hold of her, but the tension had been so much tighter last night. One of the men had stabbed her in the breast, causing an inch deep laceration near the nipple. Another had bitten the inside of her thigh so hard teeth-shaped bruises were ugly and welted.

“Don't tell Howard or Mister Jarvis,” she pleaded while sinking down the wall onto her haunches to wrap arms around knees. “Please, don't tell them you found me like this.”

Nick grabbed a towel and approached, pausing long enough to shut down the water spray before bundling her up. “Let's start by getting you out of here. Everyone will notice if I carry you. Put on your robe and go straight to my quarters so you don't risk Stark or Jarvis walking in on you while you're dressing. We're going to talk about this. Whoever did this to you must be brought to justice.”

Gratitude was plain on her face when she looked up at him. She couldn't put into words how much she owed him for being willing to hide the evidence. After Yakov, Howard might actually cut ties with her upon realizing just how diseased her psyche was. One incidence could be ignored or written off as stress-related insanity. A second? That would be much harder to overlook.

The scheme worked. She dried off, tugged on her robe, and padded from the bathroom without attracting the attention of those gathered in the communal space playing cards. She turned into the hallway but made right instead of left to slip into Nick's quarters at the end of the hall. It was warm inside. Bobby Lewis crooned about tossing and turning from the record player. The bed was so inviting and her knee, swollen to twice its normal size, so painful she eased onto Fury's bed, inadvertently dropping off to sleep a few minutes later.

Hard to tell how long she was out. It didn't feel like much time had passed when she roused to the sound of him entering. Long enough for him to shower, shave, and dress at least. He settled a satchel at the foot of the bed before saying, “I had Olwen slip into your quarters after Stark and Jarvis left to get take out. She gathered clothes for you.”

“You didn't—” The hoarseness of her voice made her clear it and start again. “You didn't tell her?”

“No, I didn't, and I'll probably regret that later. Can you tell me what happened? I've seen the way you fight. How the Hell did some man get the jump on you to cause this kind of damage?”

“It wasn't just one. There were five in point of fact.”

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered not for the first time that day. “Can you identify them in a line up?”

“I'm not pressing charges.”

“Please tell me this isn't a display of machismo where you refuse to admit to being at the losing end of a bunch of thugs. I don't know if that would be better or worse than if you were afraid of what it would do to your reputation.”

“Just drop it. You don't need a bullet point itinerary of what happened. It has nothing to do with you.”

“Bullshit. One of my allies was raped in my neighborhood. It's my business because I'm making it my business. Cocksuckers like these have to be stopped before they escalate. You need to tell me what happened, so we can take it to law enforcement. Our first stop is the hospital to document the damage. I know it'll be uncomfortable considering how vulnerable you must feel—”

“It wasn't rape. I manipulated them into doing it. I allowed them to do it.”

He stilled, his glance moving over her while appearing as though he was looking for words.

She couldn't stand it anymore and reached her breaking point. How he made it so easy to vent was a mystery. Why him when she was closer to Peggy, Howard, and Mister Jarvis? That emotional distance was probably a contributing factor. Whatever the reason, she found herself telling him everything.

She told him about being orphaned, how her parents had abandoned her on the doorstep of a workhouse either because they were too poor to afford her, too ill to care for her, or simply didn't want another mouth to feed. Some workhouses had been decent and staffed with people who cared about helping the impoverished, she was sure. She'd just been unlucky enough, sickly enough, and female enough to be deemed unworthy for admittance to a baby farm designed for the education of young children and had been reared in a ward full of other female children at a notoriously corrupt institution. 

When the headmaster hadn't been beating the kids, he'd been molesting them behind closed doors while the nurses had looked in the opposite direction. She'd never been sexually molested herself, but she'd seen enough to understand the horrors of having an authority figure taking that kind of advantage. Between the abuse, the forced indoctrination into the Protestant faith, and the games forcing them to compete for meager rewards, it was no wonder she'd grown up with such a twisted sense of morality.

All the while, she'd known she was damn lucky to not be living on the streets, because at least her belly had been mostly full. At least she had been protected from being picked up by some rich syphilis suffer who'd been convinced that sex with a virgin could cure his condition. At least they'd been forced to comply with educational requirements stating all girls be taught to read at a basic level and perform domestic skills like cooking and sewing.

The proverbial gravy train had ended the day of her fourteenth year, at which point, the institution had arranged for her to have a position as a domestic maid for a middle class family in London. Someone on the board of guardians was supposed to have checked on her regularly until her sixteenth year, but no one had bothered. There, her employer had molested her, and she had been summarily dismissed upon his wife discovering the abuse. 

After that, she had resorted to the age-old profession of prostitution in order to survive. She'd lost count of the number of men who had paid good money to have access to her vagina. A sense of empowerment and independence had resulted and she'd been able to maintain her own needs as long as she hadn't been caught by local magistrates. Prostitution and homosexual acts had been criminalized in eighteen eighty five, a full decade before her birth.

Things had gotten better during the first and second world wars. She'd followed troop deployments to France and Germany. Every army needed prostitutes and entertainers, so she had fulfilled a service and had made decent money while doing so. It was amazing the things military leaders would overlook during such high stress situations and to discourage their men from sodomy.

Living and working around the troops had provided her opportunities to learn to fight, handle firearms, and think in tactical terms. Those extracurricular activities hadn't been sanctioned by the commanders, of course. Heaven forbid someone with a vagina handle firearms. The sky may have fallen as a result, but some of the soldiers had doted on her. She'd had regulars who had thought watching the little prostitute playing with their guns cute.

It had all culminated in Gwen disguising herself as a regular infantryman and engaging in active warfare alongside the men. The fascination of combat had been immense by that point. Knowing she had the power to take German and Italian lives had brought along a new-found sense of control. Excelling at warfare had given her confidence unlike anything she'd ever experienced.

Just as she had been getting used to the stability of hiding herself inside the armed forces, the war had ended, and deployments had been recalled to England. The power and control that had been positive influences in her life had been snatched away. She'd returned to the illegal sex trade which had finally resulted in her arrest and imprisonment in the late forties.

Enter Peggy Carter and Howard Stark.

They had arrived to post bail for one Jim Morita, a victim of the terrible mental health disorders many troops had been sent home with. He'd been arrested for dunk and disorderly. While there, Peggy had toured the female ward and had taken an interest after seeing Gwen handle a fellow prisoner despite her smaller size and poor health. That had led to the duo going home with two strays.

Howard had agreed that her condition wasn't normal and had taken over researching possible solutions to her unusual genetic signature. The project had interested him enough that he'd followed it to its conclusion, leading to the development of the serum that allowed her to exist without health problems. Once her health had been under control, she'd grown several inches, packed on sixty pounds of muscle, and had finally been given the opportunity to follow a career path that interested her. 

To his credit, Fury listened quietly. He seemed interested and didn't interrupt to scoff over a small, unhealthy woman hiding herself inside the British armed forces. When she finished speaking, he finally said, “You've been through a lot. I can see how you've resorted to the only coping mechanism available to you, but this self-destructive behavior ends tonight.”

“I don't—”

He interrupted to reiterate his statement. “It ends tonight. That is the condition of my silence.”

“What am I supposed to do with all this tension, then? It's dandy to say the self-destruction ends tonight, but what do you propose I replace it with?”

“Anything but alcohol, violence, or drugs. If you were my asset, I would do everything in my power to get you mentally healthy to preserve your career. You keep doing this,” he said while waving his hand to indicate her damaged body, “and you're going to burn out hard.”

“I can't imagine any other way of being.”

“You've had your needle stuck in this groove for sixty-three years. The people who were supposed to give a damn about you taught you that you aren't worth anything, but they lied to you. Director Holcomb, they lied to you. Howard lies to you every time he disparages your intelligence or skill set.”

She attempted to protest, to defend Howard by pointing out his jibes were never intended as insults. He was just as damaged and said things without thinking. A comment from the past resurfaced to haunt her. Hadn't she been the one to tell Peggy that he would never overcome his alcoholism if people continued making excuses for him? People needed to hold him accountable.

Fury kept right on talking, though. “Howard is a fussy, self-absorbed prick who hasn't learned that people have feelings. He has such piss-poor self esteem that he can't fathom his words having the kind of weight they do for someone like you, who has effectively adopted him as her father figure.”

“He's not my father,” she insisted.

“No, but your socialization was so stunted when Peggy and he took you in, your moral fabric so skewed, that he has influenced you as a father figure might. He's been responsible for nurturing you more than any other male figure, and he should damn well take that responsibility seriously.”

Knowing what to say was impossible, so she looked down at her hands, the knuckles swollen and cracked from beating men near to death in order to free herself from the situation once a gun had entered the equation after their lust had been satiated.

“The next time you feel like engaging in this behavior, I want you to contact me. I don't care where I am or what I'm doing. You get in touch with me. It'll be awkward and uncomfortable at first, but you deserve someone to step up and give a damn about you. You're worth more than you've accepted for yourself, and you damn well need to demand better from Howard.”

“Why?”

“Because you deserve it.”

The wobbling of her bottom lip was quickly covered by clamping it between her teeth. No one had ever said that to her before. How could such a simple statement cause such emotional upheaval? Colonel Fury, a man who hadn't known her as more than a name a few weeks ago, was willing to put himself out, to invest in her because he thought she was worth a damn.

“You're not going to hug me, are you?” she asked with a lighter tone.

“Do I look like the American Murder Ken to you?”

 

**Daily Notes: Came to a realization today thanks to an unexpected intervention by Nick Fury. I love Howard to pieces, but I can't form the foundation of my self-worth around his thoughtless comments anymore. The leader of S.H.I.E.L.D should aspire to better than being so suggestible. It would be lovely if Howard could contribute to that positively. Regardless, I need to stop defining myself based on his cues.**


	12. 14 February, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Gwen finally demands better of Howard.

**14 February, 1962**

The sound of Howard's front door opening drifted into the office where Gwen was surrounded by paperwork. Falling into a routine of keeping track of S.H.I.E.L.D's operations, budget, and staffing requirements threatened to leave her barmy. Still, she would rather engage in those mundane tasks than deal with the United Nations, whose latest demand involved creating an organization to oversee worldwide S.H.I.E.L.D operations they referred to as the World Security Council.

Demands for a series of checks and balances increased daily and had only grown into a firestorm after a few rogue outposts had been implicated in a smuggling scandal shipping antiquities out of Egypt for sale on the black market. She had acted swiftly to have the outposts stripped of their corrupt staff, but that wasn't enough for members of the United Nations.

When an organization operated under functional and personal immunity, necessary for working inside sovereign countries to avoid their agents being arrested, things could turn dangerous. Agents could abuse their immunity to accomplish criminal acts. While she agreed certain checks and balances were necessary, she was opposed to S.H.I.E.L.D being forced to operate under the umbrella of an oversight committee. They could use the organization as their political muscle.

In short, she was fighting the World Security Council tooth and nail.

That led to a second point of contention with the United Nations; they were struggling with taking her seriously. Many outright refused to acknowledge that a woman was capable of overseeing an espionage organization. Some outright refused to work with her and demanded Mister Stark be present at meetings. Clearly, her vagina was the problem. If she had male parts, they would sing her praises for the order and structure she'd brought since being named the director.

Unfortunately, her vagina was rather firmly attached or she would remove it and beat them with it until they learned to play fairly. The misogynistic bastards were rendering her daft. She had come frighteningly close over the past month to suggesting they accompany her to the nearest boxing ring to prove just how handily she could make them cry uncle.

“I hate you,” she growled after opening a stack of papers from the representatives of the United Arab Republic requesting face time with Howard Stark to discuss their concerns over S.H.I.E.L.D's leadership hierarchy.

Frustrations reached a boiling point and consolidated into an intense hatred that was summarily unleashed upon the hapless stack of papers. After stuffing them back into their envelope, she hurled the package through the open office door, it the baseball to her Sandy Koufax impersonation.

Mister Jarvis, finally back on his feet and having returned to light duty, passed the office doorway carrying a delivery at the precise moment her missile's flight path intersected with his. She cringed. A collision was impossible to avoid, and the package pinged off his shoulder, causing him to yelp and flail. Somehow, he managed to catch it before it could rebound off his body without dropping the rather cumbersome box tucked beneath his arm.

“Bloody Hell, Mister Jarvis, that was amazing! Are you all right? Were you hurt?” She came barreling from her office.

“Being gainfully employed by Mister Stark means I have automatically dodged much worse than a business envelope, Director. Bad news?”

“Misogynistic twits continuing to comport themselves as mewling quims,” she responded. “Actually, I would prefer mewling quims. At least they have some uses. Crybabies who've had their precious feelings hurt by having to understand big words coming from the mouth of a female have no uses. Who was at the door? Olwen?” She couldn't help when her tone turned hopeful.

“Sadly no. Madame Carys hasn't returned from Wales. Her last correspondence indicates the Cult of the Head are having trouble making contact with their agents working inside the Seven Veils.”

“Waiting is becoming infuriating.”

“At least you have the company of Mister Quim and Miss Sogynistic?”

Shaking her head, she kissed his cheek and accepted the return of the object of her present frustrations. “What would we do without you, Mister Jarvis?”

“Make your own tea and answer your own door?”

Gwen laughed. “You've seen the way Howard makes tea. Surely you wouldn't subject me to that.”

“Of course not, Miss Holcomb. Can I bring you a pot?”

“That would be lovely, thank you, Mister Jarvis.” She was still gobsmacked over his inherent power to make her feel instantly better. After popping another kiss on his cheek, she returned to the office.

Waiting for something to break in the case of Peggy's abduction was interminable, so at least the work gave her something to focus on. Delwyn and his acolytes had failed to divine the location of the next sacrifice, and the trail had gone cold after their attempted raid on the farmhouse in upstate New York.

When no new leads had been forthcoming, Mother Carys had suggested retreating to Wales to call upon their contacts for further information. They had left two weeks after the farm incident and had yet to return, keeping in contact only through brief phone calls. Not only had they gone, but the Howling Commandos had been called back to active duty to take care of a matter in Vietnam.

Everyone was hunched beneath the perpetual storm front parked over their heads. All the while, the doomsday clock associated with Peggy's lease on life ticked ever shorter. If something didn't break soon, Howard just might make good his threat to set the whole world on fire, a possibility that came closer to reality when she felt vibrations shimmying the mansion's foundation. A hollow boom drifted up the elevator shaft from the Boom Room.

Braving the lair of the beast required a liberal splash of rum after Mister Jarvis brought her tea, and her attempt at refocusing on work failed. More impact tremors from the lab prevented it. Finally throwing in the towel, she grabbed a package wrapped in red paper before heading down into Dante's inferno.

Stark stepped from the Boom Room as she arrived, his arm still in a sling from the gunshot wound. He barely acknowledged her presence with a slight inclination of his head before sliding behind a table to push a remote trigger. Whatever explosive he was testing detonated seconds later. One could see a bright flash through the small viewing window, and a stronger tremor rippled through the foundation.

That was all par for the course when living with Howard Stark. What concerned her more were the two empty liquor bottles on his desk. That combined with his bloodshot eyes and the fact she knew he hadn't been sleeping in bed for the past couple of weeks increased her level of worry ten fold.

“You know Peggy's rule. Rule Number Three: Howard Stark is barred from engaging in science while drunk. I don't know about you, but I remember clearly the incident that resulted in that rule.”

He fiddled with something on the detonator for a second “Do you see Peggy here? Because I don't. Her ability to enforce rules is greatly limited while she's being held prisoner by a cult of evil druids bent on completing her sacrifice.”

“I'm aware of her absence.” She moved closer and settled the package near his detonator.

He chose to finish tightening down screws on the detonator instead of seeing the present, tremors and only one good arm causing the task to take thrice as long as it would have if he hadn't been drinking himself into an early grave. Stark tried three times and paused to press his face against his forearm.

“Let me.” She held out her hands for the detonator.

“You can't,” he responded.

“Let me.”

“You wouldn't understand.”

“I think I'm capable of tightening a few screws without needing an advanced degree in mechanics.”

“No, you _wouldn't understand_ ,” he reiterated. The reek of stale alcohol pouring off him could have gotten a whole town drunk.

Ten beats of silence passed as she counted herself in the direction of patience. “Actually, I think I do. You love Peggy. You love her so much the idea of life without her is unbearable.”

Something hopeful that sparked in his expression died as she spoke, and he yanked the detonator away to clutch it against his chest. “I knew you wouldn't.”

“Peggy makes you believe you can be a better man. She and Jay are the only people who've made you feel like someone gives a damn for reasons other than your name, your fortune, or your genius. You've built your life around her approval. And now she's gone. She's gone, and you feel like the walls are crumbling around you and you'll be crushed under the weight of living without her.”

His bottom lip wobbled.

She thought for sure he was on the verge of tears, and the idea of Howard weeping made her all sorts of horrified. Cold crept up her extremities toward her heart. “So when I say I understand, I mean that I _understand_. She makes your life mean something, gives you a reason to crawl out of the bottle and separate yourself from your work.”

“How do you know all that?” he asked in a whisper.

“Because Peggy and you fulfill that same role for me.”

She knew the instant it dawned on him by the softening of his features and the slump of his shoulders. That magical moment where he finally connected the influence he possessed over her with the message his words sent was relieving. A beat of silence passed. Contrition blossomed on his visage. Howard frowned and turned the detonator over into her custody, at which point, he finally noticed the present. 

“It's Valentine's Day,” she responded to the question on his face. “I got something for Peggy, too. She'll have to open it when she comes home.”

A heavy sigh preceded his response. “When you meet a bloke or bird who will treat you the way you deserve to be treated, you need to grab on and never let go. You deserve someone better than the cock up who can barely remember the date let alone the significance of holidays.”

“What if I already love the cock up? What if I'm already so invested in him I would rather help him understand the significance of holidays than finding someone new?”

“Then I would say you're a glutton for punishment. I would also say he's the luckiest bastard in the world to have stumbled upon two birds who miraculously care about him far more than he deserves. The cock up wants to do his best to deserve you, but at present, the only thing he's capable of doing is expressing that he loves you.”

“At least he cares enough to say it. There are times when I have a hard time believing he means it.”

That took him by surprise. He pulled his head back. “How could you even question that? I know I'm often a cold individual, but...” He seemed to search for the right words. “Por Larrañaga, Gwen. Absinthe. How could you possibly be in doubt of how much you mean to me?”

It was her turn to have an epiphany. Por Larrañaga was the only cigar brand he smoked. He'd been grumbling about blowing up the Soviet Union and Fidel Castro if their shenanigans caused a trade embargo, effectively cutting off his supply of cigars. Also, there was a great deal of muttering about sending Mister Jarvis to Cuba to stockpile a supply. That was a lot of effort to go to for cigars. But that was the point. He'd named her team after his favorite brand and the liquor Peggy had banned him from drinking given his obsession with it.

She nodded to convey her understanding.

Howard settled the box of toffee on his desk before coming around to wrap her up in his arms.

Despite the sentimentality following her epiphany, she intercepted his mouth with her palm. “I may love my cock up, but loving him does not mean I want to pass out from the alcohol fumes rolling from his mouth. There is enough alcohol on your breath to inebriate an elephant.”

His eyes pinched, bringing out the grooves at the corners. He seemed to be contemplating a heavy subject before finally marching to the desk where two empty bottles and one mostly empty were scooped up and transported to the nearest wastebasket. Glass rattled when he unceremoniously dumped them into the trash. 

Appreciating the gesture wasn't quite the same as pinning all her hopes on it. He cared enough to have symbolically sacrificed his coping mechanism to the trash gods, but breaking a cycle that ingrained? The first sign of trouble, he would throw himself wholeheartedly into the nearest bottle the same way she would. One couldn't throw out a coping mechanism without replacing it with something healthier and hope to get anywhere.

The important thing, she figured, was the getting back up. They would fall. As long as they both got back up and tried again, there was hope. He'd done the getting back up this time, and she'd helped him achieve that monumental task. In the end, that was a more significant Valentine's Day present than anything he could have purchased with money.

 

**Daily Notes: Finally admitting how much Howard means to me didn't come as naturally as when I accepted my feelings for Peggy. Loving Howard is so much more dangerous. His emotional instability is frightening, but I think we're finally making real progress.**


	13. 24 May, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fury has a difficult goodbye to say when he's called back to the Peggy Carter case.

**24, May 1962**

Nick pushed a small Vietnamese beauty off his chest and rolled to lift receiver from cradle to silence the incessant ringing. TSoGI informed him without preamble that Olwen and Grigor Delwyn had finally returned from Wales with a lead. The sixth sacrifice was taking place on board a ship in Lake Erie at some point the day after tomorrow. That didn't give him much time to gather the team and make it back to North America from Vietnam.

His lover expressed her displeasure with being dislodged from his warmth with a muttered curse in her native language. She rolled onto her side and tucked her palm under her head to prop herself up.

Stilling with pants half-way zipped, he whipped around. “Did you just tell me to eat vagina blood?”

"Your Vietnamese is improving, my Nicky.” She continued in her language. _“You're going away?”_

Muscles cording his arms bunched as he leaned over her, bracing his weight against the bed on his knuckles, and kissed her. _“I have to. My contacts in the US finally had a break in a case we've been working for some time. I have to be on a flight with the Commandos by the end of the day.”_

She corrected his pronunciation on a particular word before rising. Fingers, roughened by a lifetime of hard work, smoothed the taped edges of a bandage on his ribs. _“I don't like it when you go away. My contacts inside the NVA indicate General Võ Nguyên Giáp plans to intensify the fighting soon.”_

Between her touch and the uncharacteristic wobble in her voice, he knew without needing to ask that she was upset. Turning again, he wound an arm around her naked shoulders to pull her small body tight against his side. _“As soon as I'm gone, I want you to get the travel papers and cash out of the toilet tank. There are car keys inside the waterproof bag operating the van in the alley. Take it and collect your parents and the twins.”_

“We won't get very far in a van, my Nicky, especially not with biracial infants. They're much too young to handle such a hard journey getting out of Vietnam by road.”

“I know, Baby,” he said, switching back to English in order to speak more rapidly. She always found it amusing that she spoke better English than he did Vietnamese. “Once you're ready, take the family to the American Embassy and ask to speak with this man.” He removed a photo from his wallet. “His name is Major Gilmore Hodges. He's been arranging transport out of the country for the family of military and political personnel. Tell him Nick Fury sent you, and give him this.” Another object, a button belonging to a nineteen forty-five combat dress uniform, was retrieved from the depths of his wallet and pressed into her hand.

“Why can't we go with you now? It will only take me a few hours to collect my parents and the twins. Nicky, I'm afraid. If the Viet Cong find me here in Saigon, they'll realize I've flipped sides.”

Grimacing, he practically squashed her against his chest. Leaving her behind broke his heart. Knowing she was afraid broke his emotions. Being unable to do anything to rectify those two things broke his soul. In short, he had no heart, no soul, and only anxiety for emotions.

“I know you're afraid, but there isn't enough time to gather everyone and arrange transport for so many people. It's going to be all right, Baby.” He pulled back to cup her cheeks. “Just do what I tell you. Hodges will get you out. I saved his life back in World War II, so he owes me.”

Watching the shift between soft woman wanting to be taken care of and former Viet Cong intelligence agent was fascinating. One of the reasons he'd fallen for her was her ability to operate logically and independently in difficult situations. A soft, pliable woman wouldn't have held his interest for long. He watched the play of emotions across her face until she finally hardened toward determination.

“There's my girl,” he said with a smile.

Leaving her was still hard. They exchanged a long kiss at the door when he had his gear ready to depart. “Give the twins kisses for me, and tell your parents I'll make an honest woman of you as soon as you land in the US.”

Nick moved to leave only to turn back before reaching the door. He closed the three paces of distance between them, cupped her face in his hands, and molded their mouths together. She greeted his kiss eagerly. They were breathless, their lips kiss-swollen, by the time they parted.

“We'll be together again soon. Promise. I love you so damn much.” He repeated the sentiment in Vietnamese, already missing her.

Her eyes lit up with amusement. “You just said 'I shave goat scrotum.'” When she spoke again, it was in her native tongue. _“I love you, my Nicky.”_

_“I love you. I love you. I love you again.”_ He made her giggle by covering her face with kisses. 

Being able to make her laugh was one of the most rewarding things ever. Tearing himself away was one of the hardest but he managed the feat and hurried from the apartment to catch a ride to the US Embassy. The Howling Commandos answered the call to arms in record time, and it wasn't long before the entire group was aboard military transport out of Vietnam and headed for Detroit Michigan.


	14. 26 May, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Team Good Guys has another run in with The Seven Veils. While flying to the climax, Nick gets some bad news.

**26, May 1962**

He couldn't focus. His heart rate spiked, making it difficult to draw a full breath. Peering around a corner using a small mirror allowed him to sight the path ahead without having his face blown off. Four fingers were held up to the group of men gathered behind him to indicate the number of hostiles they should be prepared to take down. Said hostiles stood between them and the main door leading into the bowels of the ship. Dropping them before they could raise alarm was imperative.

Fuck's sake, he said to himself. What had possessed him to leave Vietnam without his family? Loyalty to Captain Rogers' girlfriend shouldn't come at the expense of Giang and his sons.

A shake of his head attempted to clear his thoughts (read “it didn't motherfucking work”) to allow him to refocus on the enemy. A forearm dashed across his brow to mop up sweat threatening to drip into his eyes. And when he finally received the go order from tBMB, he signaled his men to move in unison.

Morita, Falsworth, and Cohen bailed from behind their cover and made use of throwing knives to down four guards without breaking the silence with gunfire, clearing the path for Nick to move down the corridor to try the door leading into the cargo hold. Locked as expected. The sound of chanting within intensified. Time was very much of the essence.

Dernier, their explosives expert, was beckoned forward. The Frenchman hurried into position with his organized bag of goodies and retrieved a small vial filled with an acidic compound. If the man happened to be humming the melody to Alouette, no one thought anything of it. They were used to hearing him hum and sing his way through tense situations.

It wasn't much more than a minute before the lock was melted through, allowing the door to pop open. The chanting reached a crescendo, infusing the atmosphere with a greater sense of urgency. He remembered that spike preceding the death of the fifth sacrifice at the farmhouse.

“Team Optimo in position,” he whispered. “Do we have clearance to go? We need to go now.”

“Wait,” tSoGI responded. “Team Por Larrañaga is running behind schedule. Director Holcomb?”

“If we don't go in the next thirty seconds, we're going to lose this sacrifice,” Nick breathed.

Something was wrong. He could feel it in his bones (read “his motherfucking guts felt like they were being ripped from his body”) Something was wrong, and there was nothing he could do to narrow down what, why, and how long it would take for him fix the wrongness.

“Por Larrañaga in position. On my mark,” tBMB finally said.

When the count reached zero, Nick stepped back and put his foot against the door, sending it flying open and crashing into the wall, clearing the path for the Howlers to stream inside. The cargo hold was packed with a frightening number of enemy acolytes. He knew just by looking at the odds they weren't going to reach the victim in time. But you couldn't just throw your hands in the air and declare you were going home because the odds were stacked against you.

He only took a moment to assess the situation. Forty hostiles crammed the small hold. Another statue of Balor stood silent vigil over the sacrificial victim, who was levitating inside a beam of light emanating from the statue's third eye. Teams Gispert and Por Larrañaga entered the cargo hold by another door and a hole cut into the wall respectively, flanking the hostiles.

Nick signaled his team before getting down to the business of ass-kicking. The fighting was hard and confined, more reliant on brute strength and hand to hand technique than gunfire. Hostiles attempting to protect their leadership were far too well-trained for the invaders to score a quick or easy victory and was proved when Dernier sailed past Nick to be flung into a stack of crates.

“You good, Frenchie?”

Moving to give his comrade cover wasn't necessary. Three other Howlers made it there long before he could, each man readjusting to take up the slack until Jacques could get himself sorted out. No commander could be prouder of the way his team worked while watching them take up for each other (read “he was so motherfucking proud he felt like he could burst”).

The moment of distraction, however, was used against him. There was barely enough time to draw his forearm up to intercept an incoming knife. Pain flared where the blade lacerated his forearm, but it ended up deflecting the point and causing it to scrape dangerously close to his left eye. He missed having it put out by mere centimeters and didn't have time to wipe away the resulting trickle of blood.

He threw off his attacker and responded with gross prejudice (read “that dirty fucker was going to pay with more than his eye”). A knee impacted against the hostile's junk (read “Nick Fury wasn't too proud to kick a man in the motherfucking balls”), and while the prick was distracted by waves of pain, Nick slit his throat, killing said prick and using his body to intercept an incoming blunt force weapon.

A single, piercing gunshot caused his eardrums to throb, and he tore his glance away from the enemy who stepped up to replace the ball-less wonder to find tBMB with feet braced and rifle against her shoulder. She cursed, telling him she'd missed the shot, and was forced on the defensive.

Minutes and four more bodies later, he jumped onto a crate and used the height to his advantage to kick a hostile in the face. The height also allowed him to watch Stark racing toward the willow circle. The crazy fucker launched himself into a knot of priestesses who refused to scatter simply because there was a rooster suddenly invading the hen house.

“Don't pierce the circle!” Olwen shouted over the din. She dodged after Howard, positioned herself near the head of the circle, and lifted both hands away from her sides. Some sort of green, opaque energy webbed between her outstretched fingers, but the crescendo she built toward was interrupted by a man grabbing her from behind. Proving she wasn't just a curvacious body, she handled him in a few efficient moves but was swept away on a tide of defenders.

Nick removed his side arm and took bead on the high priestess as she raised the knife over her head. The distance was too great, though, and his shot went wide, allowing the nutty old bitch to plunge the knife down into the sacrificial victim's left eye. The man jerked, and Nick cursed up a storm while watching a brighter light race up the beam. When it impacted against the statue, the eye began heating.

He wasn't the only one cursing. TSoGI grabbed hold of the woman and ripped the veil from her face. Another old woman. More milky white eyes that denoted blindness. Stark gave her a good shaking and shouted something in her face he couldn't make out across the distance and din of combat.

It came as a complete shock, though, when the old woman opened her mouth and released a sound that resembled a hundred voices all raised at once. The sound filled the interior of the cargo hold and caused him to cover his ears. It was shrill and horrific and made his teeth ache.

“To Balor before capture!” she wailed.

Heart leaping into his throat when he realized their intent, he raced toward the nearest hostile. He was within touching distance when the man whipped a sidearm from its holster, pressed the barrel against the underside of his own chin, and blew his brains out. Nick skidded to a halt and blinked.

It triggered a flashback against the backside of his eyelids of an Okinawa father encouraging his young children to throw themselves off the side of a cliff. His wife, their infant clutched against her chest, joined her children, and there had been nothing he could do to stop them.

His throat ached with the remembered pain of screaming himself hoarse in an attempt to stop them.

Hostiles and priestesses throughout the room broke off combat, turned their weapons on themselves, and either pulled the trigger or plunged their knives into their own eyes. One by one, the cargo hold filled up with enemies preventing themselves from being captured in the only way possible.

Stricken, his body refused his commands for a few seconds while working through the remembered trauma. Those damned Japs had convinced the civilian population of Okinawa that Americans would torture their babies in front of them in order to gain information that would lead to the downfall of the Japanese culture. “Death before capture” had become the mantra of the gook military elite.

Witnessing someone take their own life never got easier.

***

Gwen experienced a moment of déjà vu when she approached Nick, picking her way over dead bodies. One hesitated to lay hands on a man when he looked like he was undergoing some sort of flashback, so she didn't get close enough for her presence to set him off. Still, he'd cared enough to pull her out of a moment in the basement of that farmhouse. That it was time to repay the favor struck her as weird. She was supposed to be the screwed up one.

“Nick, you know how this works. We have a limited window to get ourselves off this boat before that statue goes into full meltdown mode, so I need you to snap out of it. On your toes, Soldier.”

That seemed to drag him back to reality. He blinked a few times and allowed his shoulders to sag. A brief nod followed before he reached over to settle his hand against her shoulder. His nod preceded him moving away to check on the Howlers. They had proved invaluable allies during the fighting. So had Olwen's acolytes, of which they had fielded many.

Her glance returned to the statue. A faint glow already illuminated the central eye, signaling the start of its reactor overload. In short, they were operating on a narrow time table.

“This is an official fall back order. Get your gear and make for the extraction boats,” she commanded. The cool confidence in her voice while ordering men who weren't a part of S.H.I.E.L.D was a new development, a confidence she was growing into by leaps and bounds after spending a couple of months haggling with the United Nations.

Once she had Nick Fury functioning again and people moving toward extraction, she approached Howard, who was crouched next to the willow circle looking at something intently.

“There's something different about this circle than the one you described to me from the farmhouse,” he said. “Help me move this body.”

“We don't have time. That statue is getting hotter by the second. Standing inside a giant, metal coffin while that thing goes nuclear isn't my idea of late night entertainment.”

He retrieved a folded piece of paper from his back pocket that turned out to be a sketch of the willow circle and the woven mat beneath it from the farmhouse. They'd spent hours going over it together with him demanding precise details. He was lucky her memory was so sharp.

“Look at the knot configuration you described to me. You said there was a series of knots around the circle's perimeter, some of them colored, and a single knot on the woven mat beneath the victim. If you look at this circle, the exterior colored knots and the single knot are in different locations.”

“I'm sure it's entirely fascinating and wonderful, but we can't stay here.” She glanced toward the statue again to gauge how much time remained for them to reach minimum safe distance. It wasn't much.

“Just look!”

She glanced down toward the mat. “Okay, it's in a different position.”

“Buggering Hell, I think it's latitude and longitude.” He grabbed a pencil from his back pocket and started scribbling, marking down the latitude and longitude coordinates around the sketch. “Reach in my back pocket and get the camera there. We have to photograph this circle.”

“Howard!”

“Just trust me, Gwen!” He lifted his glance to meet hers, and there was something beseeching about the way he looked at her. Trust him, he'd pleaded. He needed for her to trust him.

She retrieved the small pen camera and started snapping photos from various angles so they could refer back to the images later. Socrates fucked an Indonesia turtle shell, but they were going to die. The metal beneath her feet was warming to such an extent she knew her boots would melt soon.

Minutes ticked by before he finally cried eureka. Not literally. He shouted when a realization suddenly dawned upon him. “The last circle possessed the coordinates for the next sacrifice. The farm house gave us the coordinates here, but we didn't know how to read it. This circle contains the coordinates of the next ritual. But what do the colored knots signify?”

She took a last photo and stuffed the camera in her pocket. “Time or date? It's a globe, but it could also be a clock or a calender. Howard, if we die here, Nick will have to coordinate Peggy's rescue. You understand that, right? If we don't leave immediately, we won't reach minimum safe distance.”

“A clock. Or a calendar. That isn't a half bad guess. So if it's a clock, the colored knots signify the time of the next sacrifice while the knot on the mat indicates its location.”

“Howard!”

“Just another few seconds.” Notebook appeared in his hand.

“We don't have a few seconds!”

Real alarm rocketed her heart into her throat when the statue finally melted a hole in the ship's hull, allowing lake water to flood inside at an alarming rate. Grabbing Howard's collar, she yanked him to his feet. They weren't dying in some evil ship chartered by evil priestesses to carry out their evil agenda even if she had to throw him over her shoulder and make like a frightened jackrabbit.

The sound of rushing water finally snapped him out of the mental puzzle he'd been locked inside. “Right, then. You were saying something about leaving?”

Now he paid attention! She clutched his hand and tore off up the stairwell leading from the cargo hold. Their progress was slowed by heat scalding their lungs with each inhale, making oxygenating their bodies difficult. Gwen nearly buckled from being seized by fit of coughing. Such extremes of temperature and dryness played havoc with her ability to draw breath, her being more susceptible given her unusual genetic makeup. If the standard atmosphere was too dry to be compatible with her genes, then how much worse was it inside what was turning into a metal incinerator.

Howard didn't leave her.

An arm shot around her waist, and he steadied their balance by grabbing the metal railing. Not a sound of complaint escaped him. He pulled them both the rest of the way up the stairwell, leaving behind a layer of his skin where he'd gripped the railing. It was either that or plummet back down the stairs into the rapidly rising lake water. Said water was boiling.

She glanced back in time to see the statue sinking into the abyss, and that was the last she saw of it before they burst through the open door leading onto the deck. Cool air on hot lungs was such a shock to her system she almost collapsed again, but they made it to one of several rope ladders and scrambled down into the boat Mister Jarvis piloted. Its engine already idled when they arrived.

“Sir has an appalling sense of timing,” Mister Jarvis said over the roaring engine as he turned the boat and gunned them toward the nearest shore. Said engine labored under such drastic conditions, as steam poured off the surface of the boiling water surrounding the ship.

They didn't dare sit or touch their escape vessel for fear of being burned and were forced to brace themselves as best they could while the enemy vessel slipped quietly into the depths of Lake Erie. By the time they reached the closest shore where the rest of their team had already retreated, the lake was several dozen feet shallower than when they'd arrived due to heat evaporation.

“One of these days, Howard, I'm going to punch you into the next decade,” she griped.

***

If worry was a dog, then Nick's gut was its bone. There was no shaking the sense that something was terribly wrong, but he kept the feeling to himself on the way back to the military grade plane Stark (read “the source of great irritation” because Nick Fury would keep emotional distance between them if it was the last thing he did) had provided for their transport. Not throwing a fit when Stark had placed himself in the cockpit on the way to Lake Erie that evening had been a test of his fortitude, but the man chose to allow Morita behind the yoke in favor of having his hand treated and bandaged. No one heard a peep out of tSoGI after he retrieved his steno pad to begin making calculations. 

Gwen seemed content to leave him to his endeavor. He told himself repeatedly he shouldn't be concerned about the splotches of red skin along her neck and hairline. It was none of his business. Neither was it any of his business when tMBD (read “the Moss Bitch Distillery”) approached the other woman, helping Gwen inject a dose of something from a small kit of vials. Only he was concerned (read “because he was a motherfucking masochist who sucked at the whole self-preservation thing”).

The flight was quiet. Speaking when they'd had their butts handed to them by a cult of evil druids (read “a-motherfucking-gain”) seemed completely irreverent, so no one bothered with post-battle conversation. It seemed statistically impossible that a bunch of tree-hugging, willow-bark-loving nature worshipers had managed to pull out a victory against trained men and women with a vast amount of military experience between them. They were clearly going about this the wrong way.

He took a minute to allow Falsworth to bandage his lacerated forearm before helping himself to the co-pilot's chair where he grabbed the extra headset. Hoping that sense of dread in the pit of his stomach would go away by reassuring himself of Giang's progress out of Vietnam, he attempted to connect with the US Embassy in Saigon. He could thank tSoGI when he managed to pick up a signal. The man had retrofitted the plane with some kind of long-range receiver and transmitter to allow for long-distance communication while in flight.

That made him pause. How had Stark had the time to retrofit a plane ahead of time? “Did you steal this plane for your private use, Stark? Is this what you use in your leisure time?”

Ho—Sta—tSoGI didn't even glance up from his calculations. “'Steal' is such a derogatory word, Colonel. I wouldn't say that I stole it for my own personal use. The military decommissioned her, and she was due to be scrapped. All I really did was save the military from having to salvage her.”

It was an indication of the extreme desensitization of having spent so long around him that Nick wasn't at all surprised and couldn't bring himself to chastise the man. Thankfully, he was on with Hodges before the hour long flight to Detroit could be completed. The amount of background noise coming through the connection, though, was mildly alarming.

“I've been expecting your call, Colonel Fury,” Major Hodges began. “I'm so sorry.”

Dread solidified into a hard softball inside his stomach. Those sounded like the words of a man who had horrific news to pass along. Swallowing repeatedly did little to calm the sudden spasms of his stomach. “Sorry about what?” Someone on the major's end of the connection shouted about ground forces engaging with Viet Cong opposition again and allied forces being in full retreat.

“Giang's transport was shot down before it could leave Vietnamese airspace. Ground troops encountered thick fighting against entrenched enemy combatants in an attempt to secure the plane and any survivors. They managed to break the enemy line. There were no survivors.”

The hand he pressed against his mouth to muffle a strangled sound shook uncontrollably, but he managed to grit out, “Are you sure? Do you have visual confirmation? Is there any possibility they could have survived and been taken into NVA custody?”

“I wish that were a possibility, but our troops accounted for all passengers. None survived.”

His lover and their sons were dead in the blink of an eye. The shock of it hadn't fully settled on his shoulders, and he couldn't be sure who, between Hodges and himself, merited the accusation in his tone when he said, “You were supposed to protect her.”

“I should have,” the major agreed. 

Nick pulled the headphones off and allowed them to clatter against the console, effectively ending the call to Saigon. While he was aware that every eye aboard the plane was fixated on him, he couldn't bring himself to speak much less tell them to sod off and give him a few moments of privacy. All he could feel was the heavy weight settling on his shoulders and the gaping hole ripping open inside him where Giang and the boys had once been.

All he could think about was the sound of pleading in her voice when she'd asked him to wait to ship back to the States so that her family and she could join him. If he'd just waited those extra few hours, they would still be alive. What made it even more tragic was that their mission had been a bust anyway. Waiting wouldn't have changed the outcome tonight, so they had all died for nothing.

Howard was there when Nick turned away from the cockpit, which was crazy enough. TSoGI had torn himself away from a scientific pursuit out of concern? Those two things seemed as incompatible as Stark throwing himself in front of a bullet to save Nick's life.

He stepped right to move around tSoGI.

Stark mirrored the movement to prevent his escape.

“Get out of the way.”

“No.”

Patience gone, he came frighteningly close to slugging the man but managed to commute the sentence to a heated glower. He did not need any of Stark's antics. “For fuck's sake, I'm still going to help you save Peggy, so you can stop shadowing me like I'm going to leave you to your own devices. I really need to be alone right now.”

A quick moment of confusion brought a shadow to Howard's face. “I wasn't actually concerned about that. Why wasn't I concerned about that? Peggy is always my first concern, not because I'm not concerned about Gwen. I just know Gwen is slick enough to weasel out of most situations. Anyhow, that's not the point. Why didn't you tell us?”

“You didn't need to know.”

“You should have told us.”

“Why? Because you have a history of being a reliable shoulder to cry on? Screw that.”

Howard—tSoGI flinched. His poker face melted for half a heartbeat to be replaced with some unidentifiable emotion that seemed completely incongruous with the loud-mouthed pervert more interested in drinking than being responsible.

Emotions sealed behind an affected front again, he said, “I have resources. You should have come to me for help. Wouldn't be the first time I helped someone smuggle a loved one into the country.”

Fat lot of good knowing that did him now! Another urge to slam his fist into the man's face was weathered just before one of Gwen's comments returned to haunt him. She'd once claimed that sometimes leaps of faith were required in order to accomplish great things. Had his leap of faith come and gone? Had Giang and the twins died because of his inability to conquer his trust issues? 

“I should have trusted you.” Moisture stung his eyes, and he had to look away.

“Doesn't make it your fault.”

“Yes, it does. I should have protected them. Why wasn't I able to protect them?”

“Don't do that to yourself, Buddy. You weren't negligent, and you sure as Hell didn't make an active decision to put them in harm's way. They died because of a tragic series of events. That's all.”

Nick's ability to remain stalwart in front of his men and their allies crumbled. It didn't register at first that tSoGI—that Howard physically supported him to prevent him from sagging to the floor. Nothing registered but the black dots pulsing at the edges of his vision and the supreme finality of knowing his family was dead. Their deaths were directly linked to his inability to reach out to his comrades, to trust they would have his best interest at heart.

 

**Daily Notes: Alexander the Great fucked a piña colada. What the Hell is there to say when someone you respect just lost his family? Life's not fair doesn't quite cut it. Nick has quickly become one of the best of men in my estimation. Him having to go through this is gutting. I've never allowed myself to entertain the notion that we might not get Peggy back until now. Think I'm going to transfer some resources to Vietnam.**


	15. 27 May, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things finally come to a head, resulting in a betrayal and a moment of relief.

**27 May, 1962**

“Come and sit down, Gwen,” Olwen crooned. “You need to give your body a chance to rest after your exposure to that kind of heat. Sit. Drink. Mister Morita informs me we'll be landing in Detroit soon.”

The only reason she wasn't clawing at the hull in a desperate bid to breathe fresh air was because Nick didn't need the added pressure of watching her go through an empathic breakdown on his behalf. He'd lost his family. The amount of narcissism required to turn that around and make it all about her intensifying fear for Peggy's life would have been astounding. Being a self-absorbed cunt didn't give her an excuse for acting completely inhuman.

Tension became an overfull cup teetering on the brink of “runneth over” but no sooner had she gotten herself settled next to Olwen when Howard, who had spent the brief flight stretched out on the floor surrounded by maps and longitudinal charts, lurched upright. 

He exclaimed, “The final sacrifice is taking place tomorrow—” A quick glance down at his watch corrected his statement. “It's taking place today in Centralia, Pennsylvania. Morita, do we have enough fuel remaining to fly straight to Pennsylvania, or will we need to stop for refueling?”

Salvadore Dali's “Persistence of Memory” sprang to mind. Months of inactivity concluded with time lurching into overdrive, and suddenly, everything was happening at once. No down time. No chance to analyze their previous failure. Just scramble here and skitter there. One way or another, Peggy's fate would be decided before sunset. Having that moment so near was both a relief and a horror.

People spoke at once following Howard's announcement, squabbling over the best way to go about securing victory over the Seven Veils. Delwyn and Olwen were in favor of trying to hide themselves amongst the enemy acolytes to take them from within. Military members wanted a more surgical approach that involved attempting to flank the enemy. Trouble was, they had tried that approach twice and had failed both times.

In short, they were divided into two cliques straight down the middle, and given their decided lack of information, one didn't know whether to wind one's ass or scratch one's watch. Everything had been turned ass over elbows. No one wanted to make any mistakes.

The one certainty during their added flight time was that people could learn a lesson about dealing with grief in a stressful situation from Nick. He had to be one of the strongest men she'd ever met. If Peggy or Howard had been killed, she wouldn't have functioned a quarter as well as he was. He managed to push the grief aside and contribute calculated thoughts, and it was Nick Fury who finally broke the standstill by coming down in favor of stealth.

“Look, we haven't beaten them once, not once, by rushing in with guns blazing. They've always been a step ahead of us, and the body count keeps rising. Time to switch tactics. Maybe we should listen to Olwen and Delwyn on this one.”

The pair couldn't have appeared more shocked when Fury weighed in on their side.

“That's what this whole thing has been about, right? Trust? Look at us. The Howling Commandos, S.H.I.E.L.D, the Cult of the Head. We damn sure haven't gotten very far working against one another. Their intelligence has been good thus far. How many of us have walked off the battlefield because one of their acolytes stepped in at the last second?”

Olwen pushed past Delwyn to speak. “If we're going to trust one another, then you should know who I am. There should be no secrets. When the fighting starts, when people start dying, you shouldn't be taken by surprise by my activities.”

Delwyn placed a hand on her upper arm. “Are you sure?”

Nodding, she settled a hand over his reassuringly. “While my name is Olwen, it's only one of my many names. I am more commonly known by Gaea.”

“Gaea as in Mother Earth?” Gwen wasn't sure if she sounded more shocked and dubious than Howard and Fury looked. A skadzillion year old Norse What's-It perfectly preserved in suspended animation kind of stole some of the thunder out of Olwen's announcement, though.

“I have been worshiped by many people during my long existence, but that's not important. What is important is that if we fail, if the worst happens and Balor is brought into the world, then none of you will be able to fight him. If that happens, you must remove yourselves from the location, and I will do my best to minimize the threat.”

“And just leave you there?” Howard asked. “Even if you are a 'goddess,' that doesn't mean you should be abandoned in the middle of a fire fight.” He made air quotes where appropriate.

“None of you can help me in a fight against Balor. Your weapons will be useless, so the best you can do is remove yourselves to prevent me from worrying about your safety in the process.”

“Let's just make sure it doesn't come to that,” Fury added.

“How are we planning on blending in with the acolytes in order to get close enough to rescue Agent Carter?” Mister Jarvis asked. “Their jackets aren't something one picks up at a local rental.”

Delwyn spoke in response by saying, “You can all but guarantee the town is crawling with acolytes. The amount of effort they've put into planning this moment means they will be watching the site in earnest. It would not surprise me if they have numerous plants among the townies.”

“So when the convoy breaks apart to enter the town at various angles, one group should concentrate on finding and pilfering dress uniforms if at all possible,” Howard finished. “Falsworth, you'll be in charge of that branch of the mission.”

“Sir, I must protest. Mister Falsworth, as highly trained and skilled as he is, has not seen their uniforms first hand outside of the chaos of combat. I have.”

“Do you think you can do it, Falsworth?”

The man in question opened his mouth only to be cut off.

“Sir,” Mister Jarvis said with more emphasis. “This is for Agent Carter.”

Gwen was as torn as Howard. Mister Jarvis had almost died once during the mission. Putting him in danger again, allowing him to be up close and personal with the same people who had already murdered two innocent victims, was a desire that did not come naturally. But Jay was right. He'd seen their costume details. Falsworth had only seen them surrounded by a myriad of distractions.

“Okay, but you make sure you get your limey backside to the rendezvous point on time and in one piece, or I'll dock your starch fund. Try keeping your impressively crisp shirts so crisp without starch.”

Mister Jarvis inclined his head.

Everyone was on edge by the time they landed in Scranton, Pennsylvania where they rented a motley armada of vehicles for the distribution of their team. They also collected detailed maps and information on Centralia from a public library before piling in to make the hour and a half drive southwest. The distance allowed them time to process the new information.

The town of nearly two thousand residents had sprung up around localized mining operations developed to harvest the rich deposits of anthracite coal abundant in the area. Most mining, though, had since been suspended with numerous abandoned mine shafts dotting the countryside. Only one company-owned mine still operated within three miles of the town.

Bootleg mining operations were still plentiful. They passed one such operation on their way in. Ten or twenty men were operating an illegal mine shaft on some hapless landowner's private property, their presence causing the men to abandon their instruments and scatter. Smoldering ash heaps near the entrance of the shaft were left to burn unchecked during the hoodlums' escape.

Seeing it gave Fury an idea. He proposed entering the underground via the bootlegged mine shaft and using it to access the larger, company-owned abandoned shafts. They could get in behind the acolytes without giving away their presence. Howard approved the idea by pointing out the location indicated by the longitudinal coordinates and issuing orders that Cohen and Morita take a small team shopping at the local hardware store for equipment necessary for going underground. Fury didn't seem nearly as perturbed as he once was that Howard felt free to order the Howling Commandos around.

Their convoy detoured once they reached the edge of town, with each vehicle moving in a different direction to avoid arousing suspicions. Spies littering the town would be more suspicious of a whole team of vehicles arriving at once.

Gwen parked her van across the street from an Odd Fellows Cemetery located near a landfill. A crew of men and machinery appeared to be cleaning the dump in preparation of a controlled burn, and it was beneath that dump that Howard claimed their target location rested. Looked like they had a bit of a hike on their hands to return to the bootlegged shaft.

She hanged on every word Howard said during their stroll through the cemetery, pausing here and there to point out a particular headstone of interest as though they were nothing more noteworthy than history buffs visiting a point of interest. Snippets of laughter over something her companions said added to the realism. Gradually, the landfill workers watching them relaxed their attention as their presence was deemed innocuous. That was their cue to disappear into a small wooded area flanking the cemetery where they picked up the pace.

***

Mister Jarvis made the ride into Centralia in a nineteen sixty El Camino crammed together with Corporal Ralston and two acolytes whose names he remembered being Joe and Mabon. Ralston parked outside a grocer and entered to purchase a few things to lend credibility to their presence in Centralia.

Edwin, meanwhile, got out to stretch his legs. Being crammed inside such a small vehicle with three other people hadn't been pleasant. How could he complain, though, when Agent Carter was in such terrible danger? Danger for which, he surmised, he was partially responsible. He hadn't overcome the guilt of being unable to stop her abductors.

Upon the return of his comrades, and after accepting the proffered bottle of Coca-Cola, they strolled down what appeared a quiet, peaceful sidewalk in a lazy town. The citizens seemed mostly comprised of older couples with families and miners who hadn't left yet for more noteworthy mining availability.

After twenty minutes or so, he became aware of being watched. Funny how the body tingled and hackles rose in response to an uninvited stare, an instinct left over from the primordial days when homo sapiens had been regularly hunted as prey items. He didn't dare track the sensation to its origin, though, and give away to the enemy that he was aware of their interest.

Ralston nudged him not long after and tilted a chin toward a home with outdoor access to an underground cellar just as a man emerged from said cellar carrying two black coats bearing patches on the shoulders. They were handed to two others who hurried down the sidewalk away from Jarvis' group. The corporal picked up the pace drastically.

“Those what we're looking for?” Ralston asked.

“I would need a closer look at the patch, but it is the same cut and fabric, yes.”

Mister Jarvis wasn't sure what he'd been expecting when his three companions pressured the men into a nearby alley between a row house and a post office. It wasn't for a young man of Ralston's tender years to corner them and turn himself into a killing machine, that was for certain. 

Whilst they launched into action, Edwin found himself frozen in place. He hadn't expected such anxiety. He'd lived through The War and had been responsible for gruesome acts in the name of freedom from the Nazi's. Death shouldn't have turned him into a shrinking violet, but all he could see were acolytes flooding inside the safe house and throwing him to the ground. His head impacting against his cot had knocked him silly, and he'd only been able to watch, dazed and helpless, while they'd carried Agent Carter from the room.

He snapped out of it in time to help his companions pilfer coats from the two deceased and move the bodies into a nearby dumpster. Being able to study the patch in closer detailed allowed him to affirm the garments as being what they were after. Determination steeled his insides. This was an opportunity for him to make right what had happened, and they were on the move again moments later.

A few more coats were gathered without further bloodshed. Someone had left the employee entrance of a business open where two coats hanged just inside. Ralston slipped them from their pegs and stuffed them into shopping bags they'd brought for the occasion. Another few were gathered from an open garage, and they barely made it away before the owner of the home could catch them.

They were just preparing to leave for the rendezvous point when he spied a man whose face resonated all the way down Edwin's spinal cord. He wouldn't forget that face, the man who'd yanked the intravenous tubes from Agent Carter, causing her monitors to screech in protest. To say that Edwin saw red would have overstated his response. Seeing red implied a sudden surge of anger that overpowered more rational senses.

Jarvis wasn't overpowered. He operated under complete control of his mental faculties when he propelled the man off the sidewalk and behind an episcopal church, leaving Ralston cursing and scrambling to both keep pace and determine if the sudden explosion of violence had been noted.

He didn't freeze a second time, not when he had something to prove, not when he could reclaim the dignity that had been taken from him. The fight was quick and brutal. How many times had he envisioned this very moment? More times than he cared to count. His enemy became the focal point of months worth of frustration and feelings of helplessness that had tied up Edwin's insides. 

Mister Jarvis only became aware that the enemy wore Peggy's necklaces, the coin from Captain Rogers and the hollow point bullet from Director Holcomb, when a solid hit sent the man to the ground, causing them to dangle from the collar of his shirt. The base villain wore them like a trophy, proudly proclaiming himself superior simply by abducting a comatose woman from a man whose liver had been punctured. Where was the superiority in that?

A strong kick flung the enemy onto his back, at which point, Edwin grabbed Agent Carter's belongings and yanked them from the vile thug's neck. The mental process divesting humanity from the thing which had hurt Peggy, turning it into an object, was quick and astoundingly easy. Objects that had caused gross personal harm should be disposed of.

“These belong to someone else,” he gritted out through clenched teeth. His contempt was clear.

By the time he snapped the man's neck, most of the heat and fury had ebbed. He didn't kill it because he hated it anymore; he killed it because it needed to be killed. He killed it to prevent anyone else from falling under its harmful behavioral patterns.

“What the Hell was that, Jarvis? You almost gave away our position with that horseshit,” Ralston chastised. “Someone could have seen you dragging him here.”

“It was a thing that needed to be done,” Edwin commented with a quick tug of his jacket.

“Hogwash. You don't get to attack a man in broad daylight without discussing it with me. I don't care if it makes you happier 'an a puppy with two peckers.”

“I have no idea what you just said, Corporal.”

“No kidding? I feel the same way about your uppity yapper.”

“He was responsible for abducting Agent Carter. I was there. I remember.”

“Oh.” A beat of silence passed. “In that case, he dun fell out the ugly tree and hit every branch on the way down, am I right?” Ralston grinned, slapped Jarvis on the shoulder, and stooped to help him hide the body before foot traffic could catch up with them.

***

The longer they waited, the tighter the wrench torqued Gwen's stomach. Having arrived first out of the various teams, she waited the longest, and waiting allowed the mind ample opportunity to invent horrors. She was especially concerned about Mister Jarvis' group, as they were in the most danger. The idea of losing him couldn't be swallowed.

Delwyn, Olwen and the acolytes who'd accompanied them finally arrived after twenty minutes, followed quickly by Dernier's group, who carried bags of head lamps, torches, and various supplies for moving through the mine safely. Grigor was particularly fussy over his mistress, constantly touching her or straightening a wayward curl. The attention he paid her and the deep wrinkles framing his eyes made him appear more aged than normal. That more than anything helped her understand the severity of what Olwen was up against should their mission fail. The man was worried his mistress wouldn't be able to stop Balor, and if a goddess couldn't, what chance did the rest of them stand?

Some of the tension unwound when Mister Jarvis finally arrived. Ralston and he handed out a few coats they'd managed to pick up. She shrugged into one and zipped it up over her tactical uniform.

“You okay?” she asked.

“Indubitably, Director.”

Something was different. She couldn't narrow down what, but he appeared settled and more in control of his own body language. Those were all good things, and she didn't take the time to question him.

“Remember the plan. Those of us with coats will approach the main force of acolytes and attempt to position ourselves near enough to intervene on Carter's behalf. The rest of you are to remain back and under cover of darkness until you're signaled or chaos breaks out. I'm the most agile and experienced of your team leaders, so I will position myself to get inside the circle of high priestesses. Buy me time to make the kill shot. Peggy makes it out of here alive even if you must sacrifice me to do it.”

“That's silly,” Howard suddenly said. “You're the director of S.H.I.E.L.D. We won't leave you behind. You are not more dispensable than Carter.”

She glanced toward him, startled.

There wasn't time to examine the motivation behind him saying so. Things had changed between them since Valentine's Day, that was for sure, but the verbal proof of their emotional transition, and in front of so many witnesses no less, shocked her. She nodded briefly and flicked on her head lamp.

The deep calm before the storm allowed her to focus before she plunged into the makeshift tunnel. It was tight, damp, and dark. Not even Dernier, the shortest among them, would be able to stand upright. That meant Fury and she, the tallest, were miserable. It felt rather like they were Madagascar cockroaches squeezing their bloated bodies through worm tracts leading them to the roof of Hell.

Tight walls brought a horrific sense of suffocation, and they narrowed further before finally opening up into the abandoned mine shaft. Not a moment too soon. She was breathing raggedly and ready to bite someone's head off by the time she exited into a more comfortable confine. It was still a confine, though. The idea of being surrounded by millions of metric tons of rock and earth didn't settle well.

Murmuring from enemy acolytes could be heard even before the orange dance of gyrating torch flames gave away the enemy location. She shut down the head lamp, left it by the wayside, and approached slowly. Chanting rose toward a crescendo and mingled with the an old woman leading the ceremony, her voice the rasp of crackling tissue paper. 

Disaster happened when they slipped past a connecting tunnel leading deeper into the mine. Armed guards patrolled it and nearly got off a shot before Olwen and her people responded. The woman's hands flexed. Green energy clung to her fingers like saran wrap before arching toward the men. It forced its way in their mouths and up their noses to silence them but didn't prevent them from fighting ferociously to break free and warn their brothers and sisters.

There wasn't time to wait for their comrades to dispatch the enemy and return, not when the vociferous clamor ahead ascended toward its zenith. Gwen kept them moving and stepped into a larger area that still contained old machines once used in daily mine operations. Calmly, as though she had every right to be there, she moved up behind the acolytes. Howard, Fury, and a few of the Howlers joined her.

An enemy mook glanced in their direction. Between their pilfered coats and dim lighting, dispelled only by a few torches and barrels full of burning material, the ruse proved effective. Her height and having her hair jammed inside a black cap proved affective in blending her in with the rest of the men, so he returned his attention to the dozen women covered in red veils who knelt in front of Balor. 

The statue was large and more intimidating, standing at least ten feet tall. At first, she thought it made of solid stone, but something inside moved and distorted the facial features. It was like watching a fetus press its foot against the inside of a pregnant woman's stomach when one could see the appendage and all five digits delineated against tight skin. Something was alive inside a stone veneer.

“Blessed be the world that is created by fire,” an old woman rasped.

The crowd of male acolytes responded, “Blessed be.”

“Blessed be He who will save the world with fire,” a different woman said.

“Blessed be.”

Still another priestess chimed, “Blessed be the true believers who return Him to glory.”

“Blessed be.”

The chants continued, but Gwen stopped paying attention when the high priestess moved enough for her to see the sacrificial victim's head. Peggy's face was turned toward them. She was much thinner and more fragile than ever before, her complexion horrifically pale. Being kicked in the stomach would have hurt less than seeing the woman she loved so frail.

“Blessed be those who have given their lives to lift the seven veils.”

“Blessed be.”

“Blessed be the Awakener who will raise Him from His long sleep.”

“Blessed be.”

She glanced back to see if Olwen and the others had managed to free themselves yet. Nothing. The woman had been imperative they not interrupt without her presence, something about a Rule of Equals and dispelling the magics being called forth, but they had no time. Every second that passed brought Peggy one second closer to death.

Time ran out. The high priestess concluded a jumble of foreign words that caused a beam of light to shatter the crust over Balor's third eye. It focused on Peggy, whose body lifted several inches off the woven mat. Knobby fingers from the old cunt's palsy-addled hand raised a knife into position.

Horror spurred her into action without considering the consequences. She lifted her side arm into position, so focused on the outcome that she barely noticed the recoil when a bullet left the chamber. A moment of silence was shattered by the sound of the knife clattering to the floor and followed by screams erupting from the surrounding priestesses when their elder sister collapsed. Gwen smirked.

Fresh chaos wrapped a vice-like grip around the occupants of the abandoned mine when the death of the high priestess caused confusion and a breakdown in the internal hierarchy of the Seven Veils. She was surrounded by thirty or forty male acolytes ready to tear her head off and spit down her neck. Worse, the other females were scrambling toward the knife, so all she'd done was postpone the danger.

***

Fighting was a welcome change. Fighting allowed him to focus on something other than Giang's death. It allowed him to channel that anger and grief into a productive outlet. His girl had died, but Steve Rogers' didn't have to. As long as he stayed ahead of the enemy (read “punched the motherfucking shit out of the bag of dicks”), then his world continued spinning on its normal axis.

Keeping ahead of them was easier said than done. The enemy fought from a place of religious desperation. They had nothing to lose but their insignificant lives and everything to gain from the rebirth of their master, which made them more dangerous than they otherwise would have been. Plus, all the enemy had to do was defend long enough for the priestesses to complete the ritual.

In short, the situation didn't just look grim; it looked black (read “blacker than the shit-stained shit-mobiles of the Satanic shitter parade” or demonic port-o-potties for short and DPoP for short short). A grimace bent his expression when a hostile jabbed him hard in the kidneys, effectively stopping a brief surge of forward momentum. He was forced to take a few steps backward.

A quick feint to the left tricked said opponent into believing it was Fury's weaker side. The DPoP fell for it and committed himself to a confidence-fueled charge, effectively unbalancing himself and giving Fury the opening he needed. The stupid bastard ran right into Nick's fist and knocked himself cold.

He glanced toward the willow circle where the priestesses finally reorganized themselves after the death of the high priestess. One emerged victorious and grabbed the knife, positioning herself at Agent Carter's head to complete the ritual. The fear and desperation in Gwen's shout would stay with him for years, he was sure. Someone that strong shouldn't have to be diminished to making a noise that was to any listener the equivalent of a razor's edge slashing though pig flesh.

So when an opening in the line protecting the priestesses presented itself, he took advantage of it with all the fury of a medieval battering ram. His shoulder impacted against the stomach of a guard. He lifted and propelled the man backward and into the new high priestess. Both were driven into the wall against which the Balor statue was propped and mere inches away from their god.

His opponent's eyes widened, and when Nick removed his weight, the man sagged to the ground with a sacrificial knife embedded in his back. Hitting or killing a woman was more difficult, though, and the priestess dropped to her knees and threw up her hands in supplication for mercy. Had Giang done the same? Had she begged for mercy before dying? He couldn't do it and stepped back.

That mistake was semi-rectified when, as soon as his back was turned, the DPoP yanked the knife from the back of her fallen comrade and went for him. Howard shouted a warning in time for him to swing around. The knife was deflected. Even then, he couldn't bring himself to actually kill her and settled for punching her hard enough she fell to the ground and the knife clattered harmlessly away.

“Now what?” Fury asked when Howard and he perused the sight in front of them. The beam of light still levitated Peggy several inches off the floor. “Olwen warned us not to step inside the circle without dispelling the magic.”

“Do you trust me?” asked Howard.

Carter's clothing began smoldering in the stages before actual flame would catch.

“Do you trust me, Colonel?” The man's voice contained more of an edge.

He flinched. “Yes. God help me, but yes.”

Howard opened his mouth to say something, but his comment was interrupted when the priestess recovered enough to make another attempt on Peggy. The knife in her hand was covered in her comrade's blood when she hurled herself into position. It plunged toward Peggy's eye.

Stark reacted first. It wasn't toward Peggy the man surged, though. Rather, he threw his weight into Nick's back, setting him off balance and propelling him forward.

There was nothing against which he could arrest his forward momentum to prevent being flung headfirst into the light enthralling Peggy. The dull roar that engulfed him when he came into contact with Balor's fury swallowed Olwen's distant shout, and once trapped inside, he felt like his nerve endings scrambled, body refusing to do a damn thing to propel himself free. Paralyzed and helpless, he tried to make sense of the horrific turn of events.

An inner voice (read “inner motherfucking masochist, more like”) drowned logical thought. It urged him to look into the eye of Balor while he had the opportunity, one that very few people were able to experience. It would make a good entry into the Spook File inside his mind palace. Be it morbid curiosity or an unseen force puling him in the direction it wanted him, he couldn't resist and glanced into Balor's middle eye. Only a thin veil covered the Fomorian's true power. It was horrifying.

Muscles went the way of his nerve endings. Warmth seeped into his trousers when he lost control of bladder function, be it from fear or from his body's natural response to coming in contact with that much power. Moments later, a burning sensation seared his left eye and obliterated his sight. Holding back the bellow of pain proved impossible.

Whatever lived inside the veneer moved, bringing its face into alignment with its stone encasement. Cracks appeared before a hand finally broke free and arched toward Nick. Three claws rent his eye socket, narrowly avoiding the eye itself. Flesh parted like sponge cake pierced by a fork. Blood spilled from open wounds. Despite impending sensory overload, he still couldn't respond or defend himself. Helplessness was to Nick as a noose was to a hanging victim.

One comfort remained; at least he wouldn't be far behind Giang and the boys.

***

Edwin clawed free of the vines twisted around his throat just as black dots danced at the edges of his vision. He got enough separation between vine and skin to gasp in several lungfuls of air and jabbed his elbow into his attacker's ribs. It loosened the woman's hold enough he was able to swing around, latch onto her head, and pull her to the ground. Her face impacted with his knee on the way down, and he felt only mildly guilty for having hit a woman.

Olwen's shout as her team finally returned to the main cavern, pulled his attention toward Balor's statue in time to witness, horror and disbelief proverbially replacing the noose around his neck, as Sir shoved Colonel Fury into the path of the beam of light. Miss Carter's body was freed and fell to the ground, but their comrade paid the ultimate price.

It wasn't his place to judge Sir's actions, so the disappointment was stamped down into the pit of his stomach rather than being expressed through copious amounts of scolding. He hurried over to Sir after Sir turned the sacrificial knife back on the new high priestess and shoved it hilt-deep into her eye socket. Once there, Edwin hooked his arms under Miss Carter's shoulders and attempted to drag her to safety. Some unseen force glued her to the mat, so it wasn't an easy task.

His face reddened with exertion. Sir's help was required, and when the mat finally turned loose of Agent Carter, Edwin wound up on his ass with the agent's head pillowed in his lap. She was far too hot to the touch. Small blisters and scald marks pebbled her exposed skin, and soot blackened her clothing. 

“Is she alive? For fuck's sake tell me if she's alive!” Sir wailed. The unsteadiness of his voice bespoke of the man's discombobulation.

He sagged with relief upon feeling her considerably elevated heart rate. “She's alive, Sir.”

Tension flooded from Sir's shoulders and made his entire body quake. He allowed his forehead to drop against his forearms. One couldn't tell if Sir was just exhausted or in the grips of a tremendous amount of shame and guilt. Both. Hopefully. Finally, Sir lifted his head again. “I have to...” He trailed off and glanced toward Colonel Fury.

“Stay with her, Sir. You're in no condition.”

Edwin eased Miss Carter's head from his lap and stood with every intention of doing whatever was necessary to clean up after Howard Stark. Sir was a good man who sometimes made very selfish choices. His decision to sacrifice the colonel rather than himself likely had what Sir considered to be a very logical motivation. That still made it a selfish decision.

***

Peggy came first. Peggy would always come first. Gwen grimaced while watching the scene play out but didn't do a damn thing to stop it until it was obvious the woman she loved was no longer in any danger. Only then did she charge Fury. The impact of her weight knocked him clear of the beam, and the pair tumbled across the floor in a heap.

That didn't mean the situation was under control. The statue of Balor released a tremendous sound that vibrated the stone around them, effectively reminding her of the millions of metric tons of rock between them and the surface. Said Fomorian wasn't happy with having the final veil still blocking his true power from entering the world and expressed himself by sending out heat waves far more frightening than they'd seen previously.

“You have to go now,” Olwen shouted. “Director Holcomb, get them out!”

Stomach clenching uncomfortably, she shoved to her feet, grabbed Nick, and flung him over her shoulder. The man was no help. He could do little more than moan in protest over his bodily complaints. Getting him out alive, somehow making up for Howard's decision, meant far more than having his urine soaking into her garments.

“Fall back!” she bellowed into the chaos.

Howling Commandos, acolytes, and a handful of S.H.I.E.L.D agents broke free and began a systematic fall back toward the main exit. She hurried that way and took up a position near the bend leading toward a long ramp to the surface in order to watch as everyone beat feet toward safety. Mister Jarvis had Peggy over his shoulder and his other arm trying to keep Howard steadily moving toward the exit.

When Delwyn refused to leave Olwen's side, the woman shoved him and shouted orders that finally got him moving, at which point, he attempted to get control of his men to put up a defensive line to cover their mass retreat. The enemy acolytes, however, didn't make for an easy jaunt to safety and attempted to take out as many of Gwen's people as possible. It was nearly a slaughter.

But her allies banded together to ensure no one was abandoned. If someone fell behind, three others rushed to their comrade's defense. Didn't matter who they were defending. Be it a cultist, a Howler, or an agent, they worked together to ensure everyone still living reached safety.

She waited near the exit until everyone retreated from the main chamber before glancing once more toward Olwen. “Are you sure? You don't have to do this alone.”

“Just go!” the other woman shouted. Some inner power manifested via an iridescent bubble that closed around the other woman. Like a child's bubbles on a summer afternoon, Balor's fire illuminated an emerald sheen across the barrier's surface. Flames bounced harmlessly away.

Leaving someone behind went against her nature, but what could she do? Given her vulnerabilities to fire and heat, her presence would only prove detrimental to Olwen's safety, so she finally relented. Her last sight of Mother Carys was of Balor, having freed his upper body from stone, spewing flames from his third eye, flames that surrounded Olwen's shield. Seams of coal ignited throughout the chamber.

Gwen turned and fled up the ramp, Fury's weight slowing her pace, as a raging inferno chased her from the bowels of Hell. Flames licked her heels. She was sure the nurses who'd reared her would have derived twisted pleasure in having been proved right, that Satan's demonic whip pursued their most defiant charge. Probably shouldn't have told the Protestant headmaster she didn't know God but had struck up an unlikely friendship with Bessy the Brown Cow.

Someone grabbed her when she emerged from the tunnel. A hand locked onto her elbow and acted as a pivot to turn her trajectory and swing her toward the concrete structure framing the mine shaft. Mister Jarvis took ownership of Colonel Fury while Howard flattened her against the wall of the gatehouse to bodily protect her from the flames that exploded from inside. The resultant fireball was intense.

Moments later, columns of flames and smoke erupted through weak points in the ground as seams of coal veining the ground beneath Centralia ignited. Flames retreated after a few seconds but left ghostly wisps of smoke undulating their way skyward before the wind dissipated even that meager evidence that a raging coal fire suddenly existed beneath their foundations. It would burn for more than two hundred years to come. Citizens emerged from their homes in various states of confusion.

Soft, plaintive sounds emanated from their injured colonel, so she urged Jarvis to settle Fury on the ground to assess his condition. The man's left eye socket had sustained significant lacerations and burns. Looked like the underlying bone could also be fractured. The eye itself, what little she could see through the blood and swelling, had become marbled with milky cataracts.

“Howard what have you done?” she asked softly. “He trusted us.”

“I didn't...” Howard tried to find words again. “Look, everyone knows I'm a selfish asshole.”

Between Peggy's condition, Fury's injuries, Delwyn weeping softly in fear for his mistress, and a town full of confused citizens, she knew the day wouldn't end any time soon. The distant wail of fire engines spurred her into action, and she ordered the Howlers to bring the van from the Odd Fellows Cemetery. She intended to evacuate their wounded and remain behind to coordinate with local authorities.

Some time around the third hour of questioning by government officials, surrounded by the chaos of firefighters attempting to douse or control the underground inferno, Gwen glanced up to see Mother Carys shuffle from the tunnel. Men were shocked to see anyone alive emerging from the pit, but she pushed through them in order to catch the woman as she sagged. Somehow, despite scalded flesh and weakness, the woman had survived Balor.

 

**Daily Notes: Not even I can reassure Howard that his betrayal of Colonel Fury was reasonable. Whatever his motivation, however logical he considered his choice, Fury didn't deserve to bear the brunt of the catastrophe. He fucked up. Fury likely won't ever forgive him. The Howling Commandos sure as Hell won't. Our alliance is splintered, and the only reason they agreed to transferring Fury to Stark Mansion for unlicensed treatment is because I gave my word. Since when has my word been worth more?**


	16. 30 May, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Princess Carter goes the way of Sleeping Beauty?

**30 May, 1962**

Sir was nervous. Edwin could tell by the tremor making his hand shake. The syringe Mister Stark held hesitated near Colonel Fury's IV. Sir had good reason to be nervous.

A glance lifted toward Captain Timothy Cadwallader, who stood with arms crossed over chest while pulverizing a cigar butt between his teeth. His customary bowler—named after its designers, Thomas and William Bowler—hat was perched confidently in place. Any sane person would be nervous under such scrutiny. Not even the captain's defense of Sir based upon their experiences in The War together could lessen the invasiveness of the Howling Commandos' perlustration. They were determined to watch his every move, convinced Sir would finish what he started while their commander floundered.

“What are you giving him?” inquired Cadwallader. “He doesn't respond well to morphine. You give that man morphine, and he'll think he's turned into a six year old girl complete with pigtails.”

Mister Stark responded, “This is the formula I designed based on my studies of Captain Rogers' blood. Part of my contract with the SSR stipulated I be provided with blood samples post-serum infusion. I've spent the past decade trying to make headway into synthesizing this serum. While it's not as potent as the captain's, it should decrease his recovery time. I've called it the Infinity Formula.”

“Should? I don't like the sound of should.”

“There may be one or two unforeseen side effects. Colonel Fury's temperature has been dangerously high for the past three days. If we don't bring it down quickly, brain damage will result.”

The captain nodded. “Do what you must, but remember that the colonel is a man of action. If you think the chances of him returning to active duty are significantly reduced, don't let him wake at all.”

“You were closest to him, so if you think those would be his wishes, I'll abide by them.”

Edwin wanted to shake them until their teeth rattled. They would rather die than learn to live with a disability? He dared they suggest that to Daniel Sousa, who had lost one of his legs during the war only to become a dedicated and highly skilled investigator with the SSR. Agent Carter thought so highly of him she'd transferred him to S.H.I.E.L.D after the dissolution of the SSR. It was disheartening that their identities had become so tied to their work they'd forgotten how to adapt.

“How long before we know whether or not it's successful?” asked Cadwallader.

“Hard to tell. When I lower this lid into place, these lamps will bathe him in Vita Rays, or at least as close to Vita Rays as I can engineer from memory.” 

Mister Stark placed black ovals over the colonel's eyes to protect them during the saturation process before stepping back and closing the horizontal lid. The colonel, stretched lengthwise across a bed of tubular bulbs designed to generate Vita Rays, was such a large man he nearly spilled from Sir's latest contraption like excess waffle batter squeezing from between hot irons when the lid closed.

“You recreated the Vita Ray machine used during Captain Rogers' infusion?”

“And possibly the cosmetic tanning bed,” Sir continued with a snicker.

Edwin had heard Sir's snickers often enough to know that wasn't a real one. Others might not see it, but Sir wasn't the same man who'd entered that abandoned mine shaft. The man who'd emerged had yet to be determined, and the people who loved him could only hope that person was emotionally stronger and more positive than the one he'd left behind.

“Any word on Agent Carter yet?”

“Miss Carys and Director Holcomb are with her now,” Mister Jarvis said.

***

Beads of energy bubbled from Olwen's pores one tear-shaped droplet at a time. They reminded Gwen of seeds, thousands of miniscule particles packed with the potential of new life emerging from Mother Nature to hang, vibrating, in the air above Peggy. They drifted like feathers onto the denuded body of the woman she loved, their internal glow casting an emerald sheen across alabaster skin. Then, one by one, they seeped into her lover's follicles.

“How long before we know anything?”

Ruby lips curved into a smile. “Patience, my sweet.”

If patience was a virtue, then Gwen Holcomb was the devil who needed to remind herself that not everyone thought the universe revolved around Peggy Carter. Their loss. She dug out the necklaces Jarvis had returned and went about stringing them back around her lover's neck until they settled into their natural positions. Cap's necklace rested that much closer to Peggy's heart than the flower.

A bang from downstairs resonated through the house, causing her to jump. For once, she wasn't afraid of incoming shelling and thought about checking on Howard and Mister Jarvis. The number of Howlers crawling around the mansion while their fearless leader convalesced in the Boom Room meant Howard was never safe and couldn't escape the watchful gaze of Fury's guard dogs.

Living in Stark Mansion the last few days had been like attempting to sleep on the edge of a war zone. She didn't care to count the number of almost-fights she'd neutralized between her lover and the Howlers. Catching Morita and Frenchie researching techniques for stringing a noose, the pair singing a ditty about stretching him from the chandelier, had been a particular low point that had only abated with yesterday's arrival of Dum Dum Dugan. Cadwallader had quickly restored order by filling their insatiable desire for Stark's blood with promises of future glory in Vietnam.

Olwen and Mister Jarvis were the only two reasons the stress hadn't overwhelmed her. They were beacons of sanity in a sea filled with the insane. To carry on with the aquatic motif, if the Howlers were hammerheads and Stark the great white, then Olwen and Mister Jarvis were whale sharks: gentle, docile, and unflappable.

“Sweetheart, breathe,” Olwen crooned.

Gwen released a tremulous breath and said, “So these spores. What can we expect with regards to side effects? You said they would cleanse her system of the residue left by the KGB bomb among other things. What 'other things' are you referring to?”

“The number of people I've shared my spores with is miniscule, and each one has responded differently. At the very least, I expect that her aging will slow considerably. That has happened to all my avatars. My last avatar also experienced anatomical changes that made her stronger.”

“You're making Peggy harder to kill and increasing her lifespan?” Tears stung her eyes and spilled unchecked over her bottom lashes. All the years of resigning herself to losing the woman she loved long before her own years were spent had ended? She wouldn't have to be alone?

Olwen reached across Peggy to squeeze Gwen's hand. “My last avatar didn't die from natural causes. She was murdered by the Seven Veils after spending three hundred years on this Earth.”

“Could you do the same for Howard?” Hope eagerly launched itself into the forefront of her mind.

“I'm sorry, but that's beyond my capability, Love, as my spores are only compatible with females and then only with a miniscule number of women. The only reason I can save Peggy is because of the changes made to her immune system by the KGB compound. There's nothing I can do to save Howard from the awfulness of his humanity, from the curse of mortality.”

She indicated her acceptance with a nod, forced to brush copious amounts of tears from her cheeks. A pregnant silence followed filled with the ticking of the grand clock in the hallway. At least she had Peggy. They would deal with Howard's mortality once Peggy was back.

“Making my girlfriend cry is an offense punishable by death,” Peggy said into that quiet.

Something profound opened inside Gwen's chest upon hearing her lover's voice after so many months. It was like the first patch of blue sky following a torrential storm. She sobbed and jerked her face from her palm. “Peggy?” Blinking furiously cleared moisture blurring her vision. “Baby?”

A pale hand, shaking from weak muscles, lifted from Howard's bedspread to cup Gwen's cheek. “Don't cry. I'm fairly certain a fairy slams into a window, breaks her neck, and dies every time you cry.”

The mad scramble that followed allowed her to get her lips on Peggy's faster than she'd ever kissed anyone before. Fresh tears, evidence of her relief and joy, glistened on her cheeks when she cupped the woman's head to help hold it off the pillow so they could snog. It was one of the best kisses of her life.

Eventually, though, breathing became a necessity despite her desire to change their anatomy so they could breathe through their skin just to kiss Peggy a little longer. During the forced separation, she ran to the bedroom door to shout for Howard. It was silly to think he could hear her all the way from the Boom Room, but she shouted anyway.

Whether his ears were just that good or Mister Jarvis had raced to retrieve the man, there were soon footsteps pounding up the stairs. The door burst open moments later to emit a disheveled Howard Stark eager to be reunited with Peggy. The look on his face was indescribable. At worst, it said he had reached Nirvana or whatever science paradise he believed would be his ultimate destination.

After many kisses and even more tears, Peggy said, “I'm impressed the two you managed not to kill each other during my absence. You'll need to catch me up with everything I've missed, but there will be changes around here. Both of you must learn to communicate in a healthier—”

Howard interrupted her with a quick kiss. “We've already done that, Love.”

When he reached for her hand, Gwen didn't hesitate in taking it. They would never be twitterpated. They would never play footsies under a table or giggle like lovebirds, but they could attain a comfortable intimacy, one where she could love them without that knee-jerk reaction to reinforce how undervalued she felt. They could be together in a much healthier manner than they had before.

 

**Daily Notes: Peggy finally woke for the first time today. Now begins the road toward recovery. Muscles have atrophied from months of disuse. Physical therapy will be intense for her, but Howard and I will be there every step of the way. I cannot describe the joy.**


	17. 10 June, 1962

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tim Cadwallader uses racist slurs against the Vietnamese.

**10 June, 1962**

Colonel Fury hadn't imagined a day when he would barely be able to stand, where he would be forced to grasp Timothy's forearm to keep his own legs from betraying him; he'd been through enough betrayal lately. That day had arrived nonetheless, and he clutched the strong arm his captain thrust toward him to prevent himself from returning to the bed from whence he'd risen.

His current condition had been heralded by one Howard Anthony Stark, who had been downgraded from tSoGI to the Dead Man Walking (tDMW for short). When he got his hands on Stark, the cocksucker would pay with the contents of his lungs (read “I will strangle that motherfucker with his own intestines”). In short, he couldn't stand being in Stark's domicile another second and shuffled toward the mirror with Captain Cadwallader's help.

There, he retrieved a black eye patch and took a moment to study his injuries. Swelling continued to aggravate the eye socket, but the lacerations and burns were still in the process of mending. Once they were fully healed, they would be less immediately noticeable, less disfiguring. As for his sight, he still retained a miniscule percentage of visibility from the eye, enough to see vague shapes and simple shadows, but the effect proved more a liability than a relief. It would have been less invasive if his injured eye had lost all visibility.

Grimacing, he tugged the eye patch on and surveyed himself. “I look like a motherfucking pirate.”

“Is that supposed to be a bad thing, Sir? Pirates fill the unusual position of being both fearsome and intriguing. They're cool cats everyone wants to be but no one wants to irritate. Kind of like Jesse James. You, Sir, are the new Jesse James.”

“And you, Sir, are full of bullshit.” Fury squeezed the man's wrist affectionately.

Besides the damaged eye, he was sore in places he hadn't known existed (read “how could his motherfucking hair follicles be sore?!”), and he required Tim's help to don his black trench coat. “Is the team ready to return to Vietnam? We have business there.”

“Sir, you're in no condition to be mucking through jungles full of communist zipperheads.”

“I will have the final say in what I'm ready for.”

Tim's expression became slightly crestfallen and three hundred percent stubborn

It prompted Nick to turn toward the man. “Captain, my family was murdered, one of the people I trusted destroyed my vision, and I will go soft in the head if I have to reconnoiter that cocksucker's asshole for another day. I have to do something, anything.”

The captain searched his face for a moment before nodding. “Then I'm coming with you.”

“I can't ask you to do that. You wanted out. You built a life for yourself in Canada. That's not something you just put on hold in order to dive back into the madness of combat. You've given enough to your country to deserve a break.”

“Retirement isn't how they described it on the post card. Prop your feet up and sip lemonade, they said. Enjoy lazy summer days sitting on your front porch, they said. And that was nice. I enjoyed that. For about a week. Mallory has me knitting, for duck's sake!”

“Did you just transcribe 'duck' for 'fuck?'”

“Mal hates my language. Anyhow, back to the knitting. Says it's good relaxation to help me process the ultra violent shooting gallery playing in my head. Claims my brain is like an arcade machine. Stick a quarter in, and I'm mentally blowing up simulated rice paddies full of bloodthirsty gooks.”

Nick hadn't thought he would be laughing for many years to come, but Tim wrestled a laugh from him despite everything he'd been through recently. “Are you sure you want back in?”

“I'm sure. At least until you're back on your feet. Gabe may have been released from the hospital, but he's still not well enough to take over command until you're fully recovered. We'll go to Vietnam, but make no mistake. I'm not letting you on a field of combat until you've retrained your muscle memory. You have to learn to function without twenty-twenty vision.”

His head sank toward his chest.

“You'll get through this, Colonel. I promise. You'll be unzipping zipperheads in no time, but you have to do the ground work first. You have to be safe before I let you back into combat, safe for us so you don't accidentally misjudge trajectory and blow one of our heads off, and safe for yourself. You want vengeance for Giang and the boys? Then do it the right way.”

He finally acquiesced.

Tim slapped him on the back. “Then let's get out of here. A car's waiting to transport us back to the safe house where Gabe and the others are gathering.”

Fury grabbed his few belongings and exited the Boom Room. Thankfully, tDMW wasn't in his lab. He hadn't been in his lab much during the past ten days and had been spending most of his time with Agent Carter and Director Holcomb. Blessings should be counted that the cocksucker had known well enough to steer clear of him.

When they emerged in the foyer from the elevator, it was in time to see the cocksucker in question disappearing through the library door. Gwen was helping Peggy take practiced steps using the aide of a walker. Seeing someone so strong, independent, and capable reduced to using a walker to take twenty steps was a real kick in the gut (read “it broke his motherfucking heart”).

“Colonel, Captain Cadwallader, I'm told that I owe you and yours a debt of gratitude for working with Gwen and Howard to save me. I would have come to see you sooner, but...” She allowed it to trail off and indicated the walker. “Thank you for what you did, and I'm so sorry for your loss.”

“Can't think of anyone more deserving,” he returned. Her condolences made him cringe.

Tim broke away and hurried over to have a few private words with Peggy, as the two had remained in contact since Captain Rogers had disappeared.

Gwen, on the other hand, moved in his direction. “You look better.”

“Better is preferable to worse, I suppose.”

“How should we leave this? I won't ask you to forgive him. You might want to give him a chance to explain at some point when the sense of betrayal isn't so raw, but I won't try to make excuses for him.”

“I respect you, Director Holcomb. Because I respect you, because we work well together, you may consider me available for coordinating efforts between S.H.I.E.L.D and the Howling Commandos. Because I respect you, I won't make any active attempts at getting revenge on him. Just keep him out of my face. If he ever attempts contacting me, the wind may shift.”

“Understood.” She offered him her hand. “And thank you for everything you've done to help us and to help me. I turned an important corner because of you. I won't forget that.”

He clasped her hand. “I may be calling on your resources sooner rather than later. Things are heating up in Vietnam. The president might want to stay out of a full scale ground war, but I don't think we'll have much choice in the coming months.”

“Then S.H.I.E.L.D will stand ready to help in whatever way we can.”

After a few more moments of conversation, Captain Cadwallader returned, and they continued to the door. His teeth gritted when he misjudged the distance between himself and the jamb and ended up walking his shoulder into it instead of passing through. Forced to correct his position, he found the obstruction with his palm and finally stepped outside, emerging from the lair of the beast and finally presented with the opportunity to begin his life anew.

***

Howard allowed the curtains to fall together after watching Colonel Fury enter a military transport vehicle and drive away. He returned his attention to the tumbler of Scotch gripped in shaking fingers. One glass, he promised himself. All he needed was one glass to take the edge off, to dull that terrible sense of anxiety. It was like the world raged around him in a maelstrom. Every minutia of sensory information didn't just present itself; it screamed its way into his brain like a rocket, and trying to focus on just one thing seemed impossible.

He sipped the contents of his glass, and it tasted good, like the comfort of an old friend dropping by to translate the world into a language he could understand. Another sip. The tremble of his hand stilled. It was just a friend. How could a friend be so bad for him?

Before he could carry on that thought, some black-veneered drawer labeled “Conscience” opened unbidden inside his mind palace. The creak of that filing cabinet sounded more like a train shrieking down the rail. From inside emerged Notebook, her green cover a tease. She flipped through several pages before finding what she sought. 

_“You promised Muse Beta. You swore you would try to stop.”_ The reminder of his promise slashed across the page like hatchet marks dripping red ink and suspiciously as illegible as his own handwriting.

“She'll understand,” he muttered.

Notebook flipped to a new page. _“She won't. What's more, Muse Alpha wouldn't approve. Muse Alpha promised to boil your head the next time you collapsed beneath temptation.”_

“But...”

Another page opened, and the red script became bolder, bigger, more shouty. _“Scotch is not your friend!”_ The word “not” was underlined three times and surrounded by exclamation points for extra emphasis. _“Scotch is the battering ram Alzheimers employs to violently penetrate the impenetrable fortress of Science. Alzheimers and Science, after all, are mortal enemies.”_

He glanced down at the amber temptation filling his glass with the promise of a dulling of his senses. Clenching his bottom lip between his teeth stopped the wobble of grief when he realized the decision that needed making. Before his courage could desert him, he marched over to the potted plant Jay kept in the library and upended the battering ram into the soil. He swore to bloody Einstein if that plant started drunk dancing, he was checking himself into the nearest institution.

Fury hated him.

 _“Fury trusted you, and you betrayed him,”_ Notebook said in a less shouty tone.

“I didn't mean to. Everything happened so fast, and I thought he would be less impacted by living without his sight than I would. He's such a capable man and leader. There are positions he could fill while being blind in one eye, but I can't science without both my eyes.”

_“Give him time to calm down. Give him time to adjust. Muse Beta will smooth the road.”_

“It's not her responsibility to clean up after my messes. I'm the way I am because I've become accustomed to everyone cleaning up after me.”

 _“That is a mature way to look at the situation. I'm so proud of you, Howard.”_

Notebook would always be a source of comfort, but part of him felt he wouldn't need her much longer. The trauma of avoiding Scotch's temptation was already receding. He was calming down much faster than ever before. Being so in control of himself was a foreign concept, but he liked it.

A little smile softened his features, and he moved behind his makeshift desk—he'd given up his office desk to Gwen while she served as director of S.H.I.E.L.D—to retrieve the letter that had arrived earlier. Pretty handwriting looked up at him from a crisp, cream envelope. The return address was listed as Maria Carbonell. He eagerly opened the envelope to read her letter.


End file.
